


In Search of Antidotes

by azhdarchidaen



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Anxiety, Family, Gen, Historical AU, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Suicidal Ideation, Violence, gothic horror, probably excessive referencing of Macbeth (among other things), trigger warnings for:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-12 16:35:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 30,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5672815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azhdarchidaen/pseuds/azhdarchidaen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(or, "Unnatural Deeds Doth Breed Unnatural Troubles")</p><p>The year is 1892 and strange events find Stanley Pines in the Oregon frontier, checking on the current state of his estranged brother. But not all is as it seems in the settlement of Gravity Falls, and his twin appears to be stuck in the heart of it. </p><p>Things escalate quickly, and the question Stan now faces is if he can unravel the secrets spun around him quickly enough to prevent a tragedy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Something Wicked this Way Comes

  

 _Please note that the documents included in this narration_  
_are taken from direct sources,  meant to both make clearer the_  
_storytelling and to assure you, the reader, that the events portrayed_  
_are not quite the fiction you would be tempted to believe them to be._

 

* * *

 

**[Telegram Sent from a Mrs. Pines of Glass Shard Beach, NJ to S. Pines in Cripple Creek, CO]**

_` Confirm address? STOP ` _

_` Need to write you STOP ` _

_`Worried about Ford STOP`_  

….

 

Stanley Pines looked at the building in front of him, then at the creased letter he’d pulled from his worn jacket pocket, and once more back up at the building, all with trepidation. It appeared to be the place he was looking for. He just also disliked the actual look of it.

Shuddering slightly, and frowning at the involuntary motion, he assured himself for about the twelfth time that he wasn’t letting the rumors and whispers of the townspeople of Gravity Falls get to him. Stan was nervous enough about the prospect of reuniting with his estranged twin, he didn’t need their excessive superstition to weigh extra on his shoulders when the encounter actually came. 

To be fair, coming somewhere with already frayed nerves only to be adamantly discouraged from speaking to the person triggering your anxiety was a pretty worst-case scenario. He couldn’t imagine what Ford had done to worry the residents of the place so much -- sure, his brother was eccentric, but not intimidating. And certainly not, to his knowledge, particularly malicious. The way they spoke about him though, you’d think he’d brought a plague upon the entire settlement.

“You don’t want to go out there,” the bar patron he’d spoken with shortly after arriving in town had said when he explained he was looking for Stanford Pines. “It’s not a _natural_ place.”

It didn’t change when Stanley explained he was family -- if anything, the rumors just picked up, with more and more citizens chiming in. They got so outlandish he started to wonder if everyone in the place wasn’t a bit touched in the head. 

“He’s supposed to be a scientist, but he dabbles with things no man should study.”

“I hear he’s been grave-robbing, for 'experiments'…”

“Did you hear his assistant went mad? Hasn’t been around for weeks, in any case, poor man.”

“I’ve wondered… I reckon there’s not something completely human about him. Not _anymore_ , at least -- he gives off a feel like a ghost when he comes into town. Not that it’s often.”

“Think he’s been messing with spirits, he has.”

“You can tell just by looking at him -- he’s got the Devil’s number of fingers on each hand, you know.”

Stan had actually stood up to leave at that one, finally responding to one of the accusations by saying that actually, his brother was quite sensitive about that and he’d punched people over saying less about him. After that, there wasn’t much to do but march out the doors.

Now that he was at the address the townsfolk had begrudgingly provided him with, however, he thought they just might be getting to him. Something, at the very least, seemed... wrong.

 

....

 

**[Letter received by Stanley Pines on December 30th, 1891]**

_Dear Stanley,_

_I’m sorry my telegram had to be so vague -- I just wanted to know I’d reached you. It’s hard to make sure with you always moving across the country. What’s in Colorado for you? I feel like I know the answer already. I know you’re getting by Stanley, but I worry about how long you’ll be able to keep chasing gold._

_Anyways, I hope you’re well. It’s hard to know when you’re so out-of-touch, though I understand those frontiers are distant enough to make that difficult. That’s actually what I’m writing you about, though under slightly different circumstances._

_I know you and your brother haven’t been on the best of terms, but I also know that once, at least, you thought family was as valuable as I do. So perhaps you can help._

_I’m worried about Stanford -- he and I kept up at least some correspondence when he moved out to Oregon (Were you aware he was in Oregon? Some expedition for the museum he had connections with. He never struck me as a frontiersman and while I suppose things there are more civilized now than I always think of, he’s not in the city and I’ve still worried…) His letters back have been brief (you know your brother and he hasn’t changed: “Doing fine, found some critter, going to go back to studying it, ‘Sincerely…’) but generally prompt enough in response._

_Until more recently, that is. He hasn’t written back at all. I even sent a telegram similar to the one I contacted you with, assuming he would maybe be reminded to respond (you know he forgets these things) or finally realize I worry about him when going into town for supplies, but it’s been weeks since then (November!) and as far as I know no one has heard from him._

_I know I sound like a worried mother but it’s because I am, and I dread to think what might have happened to your brother without someone keeping an eye on him as he so often seems to need. I know it’s been years, but as boys that was always one of your strong points -- and more practically, you’re also the other furthest West family member and have generally been rather mobile (a luxury I don’t have, and your father is being… well, your father... about this all)._

_Whatever your decision I hope that this letter at_ least _finds_ you _well, Stanley, and anxiously await your reply._

_-Your Affectionate Mother_

 

…

 

The house, to put it lightly, had seen better days. Boarded up windows were the dominant feature, there was shattered glass on the porch, and it looked in need of other basic maintenance, vegetation already beginning to creep up on the building in the way that it only would if left untended. It had begun to rain heavily, and as a bolt of lightning streaked across the sky Stanley took a deep breath, resolving that neither superstition nor personal anxieties were going to prevent him from knocking on his brother’s door.

When he did, no one answered.

Had Ma been too right, too late? Had something horrible occurred, and were the town’s assertions that Stanford had an air of death around him correct in an exceedingly uncomfortable way? Nervous as he was about an encounter, Stan’s heart caught in his throat at even entertaining the thought. He raised his arm, rapped at the wood once again--

\--and was nearly flung on his back as the door burst open.

It was a wild, frantic action, and he’d have questioned the nature of it if when he looked into the open doorframe the first thing he saw wasn’t clearly the frame of his brother, knocking the air from his lungs more suddenly than any impact could.

Stanford had always been smaller than him -- he had the physique of a bookworm, not a boxer, and sustained it with a diet of too-often forgotten meals. But the man standing in the doorway wasn’t just slim, he looked _gaunt_.

Ford’s face was about the only visible skin on him -- pants tucked messily into boots, his shirt buttoned tightly at the wrists, a loose cravat keeping its collar well above his neckline, and even his hands largely wrapped in messy strips of gauze -- but it had a deathly pallor to it that made Stanley’s mind, for a moment, recall some of the more outlandish rumors in town about his brother and undeath. Dark circles rimmed anxious eyes, accompanying a body with a nervous twitch that seemed to be skin and bones and little else. He looked hollow and breakable, like a water glass in danger of shattering.

Everything Stan had rehearsed saying when mentally preparing to reunite with his twin died in his throat at the sight of him, and not because of the nerves he’d expected. Sure, their mother had written because she was worried, but he still hadn’t expected to find his brother in _this_ state.

“...Ford,” he started, but was cut off almost instantly by a frantic yelp.

“ _Stanley?_ ” Ford said incredulously, wringing his hands as he realized who was at the door. “No no no _no no_ ……. how on Earth did you…. why….?” his face hardened. “You must leave. Immediately. I don’t know how you found this place or… or… what compelled you to come here but--”

“The answer to both is ‘Ma’ and you wouldn’t be dealing with me on your doorstep if you just answered her damn letters,” he replied, more bitterness than he’d wanted seeping into his voice. After the initial shock of seeing his brother looking like Death itself, and the accompanying concern, the next distinct emotion he managed to muster was “hurt” -- at the fact that he’d gotten a demand to leave from his own twin before he got a greeting.

But as soon as he spat out the words he felt awful, watching 12 bandaged fingers interlock and separate in a pattern of clear anxiety. A wiser person would probably remain insulted, but Stan’s heart had always had an incurable weak spot for family -- and especially Ford. It was why he’d hauled himself from his (admittedly unproductive) claim attempt up to Oregon in the first place, and now that he had some idea of there being good reason for that, he sure as hell wasn’t about to leave.

“...Not to mention, you look like you might need the help,” he added, far more softly.

Ford’s own face grew softer too, and for a moment he looked about to concede that yes, in fact, he might -- God, he looked so _tired,_ and in that brief moment of near defeat it was splayed across his features -- but only a moment later he frowned and pointed in the other direction.

“Trust me, it’s best for most everyone if you never set foot inside this building,” he said darkly, and moved to shut the door. 

“Ford! Ford, you gotta tell me, is it best for _you_?”

“That’s final, Stanley!” he shouted, and slammed the door. Conspicuously, as Stanley noted, not actually answering the question.

Stan stood on the porch, hearing the rain pour down on the weathered roof above him -- which seemed to be sprouting some leaks. He pulled his patched-up jacket tighter, unsure what his next move ought to be. Clearly Ma’s suspicions were correct -- something was deeply wrong regarding his brother, and it would never sit right with his conscience if he didn’t learn more. But the townsfolk treated Ford as a pariah, and Ford seemed to be acting the part. And had shut him out. He had no leads.

Just as he was about to turn around, deciding that seeing if anyone in town could tell him even _fragments_ more of the situation might be the only something he’d have to go off of, the door to the house creaked open again.

“Stanford, I--” he said slowly, pausing _again_ with surprise at his brother’s appearance. The wretched state of his health seemed no better, but the crippling anxiety had vanished from his features. He instead bore a cool smile, eyes glinting with a confidence that was almost unsettling in how drastically they’d changed.

At least, Stan hoped it was the confidence that unsettled him. Either that or those stories the townsfolk had told were getting to him.

“My apologies, Stanley,” Ford said, his voice no longer shaking as before and instead a similar, collected cool. Pushing the door open in a more welcoming gesture, he stepped onto the porch and held it to widen the entrance of the opening. “I’ve only just realized you probably have no place to stay, and of course you’re welcome here. I assure you I’m in need of no assistance, but I can only assume you’ve traveled a long way -- my shock at being reunited is no reason to turn you out in the rain.”

“...Right,” Stanley said, unsure if he was more unnerved by the shell of his brother he’d seen earlier, or the speed at which it had vanished. Something wasn’t right.

“Won’t you come inside?” Ford asked.

He hesitated, alarm bells that had kept him alive in more than one scrape ringing violently. But this was his _brother_ who was triggering them -- his brother who, whatever he said or however quickly he hid it, was clearly in some kind of trouble. If he was going to get to the bottom of this, it was the only real thing to do.  
  
“Yeah...” he replied, pushing down his own anxiety as he crossed the threshhold. A bolt of lightning streaked across the sky behind him, and he shuddered outright this time as he swore he saw the yellow unnaturally reflected in his brother's eyes.

“...Yeah, I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FDQW


	2. The O'er-wrought Heart

 

**[EXCERPT from the diary of Stanley Pines]**

**[note that included are two train tickets, one on the** _Union Pacific, Denver and Gulf Railway_ **from Denver, Colorado to Butte, Montana and the other on the** _Northern Pacific Railway_ **from Butte, Montana to Portland, Oregon]**

_January 3rd, 1892_

_Still a few hours before we reach Portland, and then I gotta make my way to Gravity Falls from there. Which means plenty more time to dwell on how Ford is going to react to me showing up._

_I mean, he won’t be mad, right? If he is mad, he won’t be THAT mad, right? I mean, Ma’s been communicating with him, she wouldn’t send me up here if she thought he was still dwelling on everything, would she?_

_Unless….. something was really really wrong. Which it might be._

_Why did this all have to get so complicated?_

 

…

 

Night had been falling as Stan arrived at his brother’s home, and he’d been somewhat oddly-enthusiastically rushed into a "guest bedroom" once he stepped inside.

“I have some important business to resolve,” he’d said. “And do be warned—I mean it only as a precaution, but it might be in your best interests not to wander. My work has the potential to be… hazardous.”

While the warning had done the opposite of reassure Stanley his intervention wasn’t needed here, he decided to at least heed it for the evening. He’d already already pushed his luck with Stanford’s hospitality for the night getting invited in at all. Better to get a clearer idea of the state of things when tensions might have lowered.

So it was with a relative peace of mind he hadn’t bungled the whole thing yet that Stan started the next morning.

Peace that was shattered, unfortunately, very quickly.

He’d decided the most likely place to find Ford in the morning, and hopefully start to get some answers by speaking to him, was the cabin’s kitchen. Makeshift kitchen, really—it didn’t look like it was frequently used for actually preparing food, and had instead been taken over by the parchment, books, and strange odds and ends that dominated his brother’s home. “Laboratory” might be a better name for the whole place, being honest.

And find him he did—when Stanford walked into the room and shattered a vial of something he’d been carrying on the floor, dropping it in shock.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, looking visibly shaken and completely ignoring the shards of glass now at his feet.

“I… thought I might find you?” he offered, deciding it sounded weak the minute the words escaped his mouth. _Damn._

“No no no no,” Ford said, now frantically gesticulating with bandaged hands, as if he could make his point to Stan just by waving them with enough urgency. “I mean inside… in here at all… it’s… I told you to leave! Why didn’t you leave? I know I said that, I _remember_ I said that—”

“—and then you invited me inside,” Stan said, his brow furrowing with concern. Ford wasn’t faking confusion just to drive him off. He knew ruses, and besides that, he knew his brother. Unless he’d gotten significantly better at lying since he’d seen him last, Stanford seemed genuinely distressed. And a real gap in his memory meant… well… Stanley was no doctor, but he’d seen enough drunken blackouts, mining accidents, and other just plain bad scenarios to know there were lots of options, but none of them were good.

Sure enough, he thought he saw a flash of recognition of the same idea flash across Ford’s face.

“Why would he—I mean I…?” he trailed off, opting to start nervously chewing at his fingernails—something Stan hadn’t seen his twin do since they were 8 years old—instead of finishing the thought.

Perhaps it was noticing the re-emergence of the childhood tic—one he associated with his brother, schoolyard bullies, and no small end of taunting—that caused one of the warring sides of Stanley’s brain to capitulate, but something caved. He’d mentally divided his thoughts into “upset about being told to ‘get out’ for the second time in less than a day” and “worried about his brother’s current state” camps, and it was the latter that influenced his next words.

“Stanford,” he said as gently as he could, “whether or not you remember, I think it’s a good thing you did. You need help.”

“I don’t need anything of the sort,” Ford snapped, ripping his hand away to again gesture wildly and glaring. “And for you to arrogantly insist on offering it after—“

“— _Stop_ ,” Stanley said loudly, feeling the mental battle between emotions restart. Ford jumped at the sudden increase in noise, a look of genuine anxiety flitting across his features. Stan felt a small pang of guilt at that, but not enough to halt the war. He continued.

“Look, I know you’re probably placing the blame for things on everyone but yourself, and I know you probably think me coming up here to send some common sense your way is some kind of insult to your intellect, but goddammit Ford, I’m looking past that. This wasn’t even my idea, I’m here because you’ve been worrying Ma sick. And hell, now that I _am_ here, you’re worrying _me_. I’ve got my own wounded pride to nurture, and you don’t do it a lot of good, but I’m trying to put it aside for the moment because You. Need. Help.”

Ford’s shoulder’s lowered in a defeated sigh. “I know,” he said, so quietly Stan barely even caught the admission. He’d thought it was going take longer, if he ever got one at all.

“...If you know, then why won’t you accept my help?”

“Because I can’t,” Ford said.

“You _can’t_ ?” Stan said incredulously. “You’re half-dead in front of me, looking weaker than a kitten and like you haven’t eaten in days; from the state of your supplies you haven’t been in town for about four times that long, and you _can’t_ accept my help?”

“No, I _can’t!”_ Ford snapped, something apparently having roused his own temper.

“What, won’t stoop that low?” Stanley said bitterly. He’d been scared Ford might still be angry, had worried that his brother even hated him, but watching him actually refuse his assistance, especially when he seemed to be in such dire straits, hurt like something else entirely. “Still had it with your stupid brother?”

“That’s not really what’s happening here, Stanley!” Ford returned.

“Oh, so it’s a _little_ of it?”

“All I mean to say is that things have spiraled far beyond my desire to be self-supported!”

“What things _?_ I’m here to _help_ you with the things! _Tell me_ what _things_!”

“You wouldn’t understand!”

“Oh, _I_ wouldn’t, but _you_ would? Because _you’re_ so smart, and I’m an i—“

“—you are, in fact, being an idiot, Stanley. Mostly because you won’t _leave!_ ”

Their shouting match could probably have continued an unfortunate span longer, had the exertion of it not caused Ford to suddenly buckle, grasping blindly at the table for support as his legs gave out from under him. Stanley, though his face still stung from the outright rejection of his twin, reached out to grab and hold him steady. Ford moved to push him away and instead just collapsed in his arms.

“As a _kitten_ ,” Stanley said as Ford hung limply in his grip. “And you weigh about as much as one too. Insult me all you like but I’m not leaving you like this.”

“For someone who thinks I’m so ill, your bedside manner is deplorable,” Ford said.

“Yeah, well I’ve had more pleasant patients.”

The argument may have passed with Stanford’s complete and utter loss of dignity, but as Stan helped him slowly into a chair, he couldn’t help but feel like all they’d managed was to wound each other.

 _Maybe I am being stupid_ , he thought, and couldn’t decide if he meant it because he’d accepted Ford’s words, or because he was putting up with them.

 

***

 

It had been a struggle to make it happen but Stanley had eventually gotten his brother (who spent a good twenty minutes before doing so muttering that he “wasn’t hungry” despite the obvious) to sip at an entire bowl of soup, thrown together from putting the few vaguely stock-like things in the pantry in a pot and praying they were still non-toxic. He decided to ignore the fact that it had taken him actually physically barricading the doorway with his larger bulk to make it happen, and consider this his first victory.

Ford just complained that Stan was keeping him from his “work” and slinked off into the shadows of the house the moment he was free.

He thought about going into town for supplies for the rest of the day, because they were in desperate need—not just to fill the pantry, but Stan had noticed while his brother weakly tried to push him out of the doorframe that the bandages on his hands, whatever they covered, were bleeding through. But he decided against the idea. The way things were going, if he stepped out of the building, Ford would lock him out the minute he left and throw away the key.

He could make do with what little they had.

Funny that he kept using the word “they” seeing as the two of them weren’t exactly working together. More like shouting, insulting, and fighting each other the whole way. He would admit he’d worried about the first two, but the latter came as an unpleasant shock. Ford seemed to be strongly against things that would help his literal survival.

Stanley could dwell on verbal hurts later. At the moment, that concerned him more than anything. He just wished he knew what was _wrong._

The next couple of days passed in a similar routine, of Stan only occasionally even catching his brother around the house, and trying to tend to him in one way or another when he did. Every time, he was rebuffed. It made no sense.

And  _also_ made him incredibly sad.

When Ford wasn’t around (and hell if he knew where he vanished to at all hours), Stanley spent his time looking everywhere else he could think for answers. At this point he’d take ones to anything—his brother’s current state, his strange disappearances, even just the knowledge of why Ford seemed so insistent on refusing his help. Cabinet after cabinet after desk after drawer was rummaged through, and while he unearthed a lot of strange symbols, field notes, and journal articles from his brother’s belongings nothing actually useful emerged.

He decided to try Ford again late one evening, when he caught him in the room he assumed was a study.

“You’re not getting me in the kitchen,” Ford muttered, clutching the papers he’d been sorting through tightly to his chest. Stanley considered snatching them from him, hoping desperately that something, _anything_ , about them could be a clue. He knew it would be easy with Ford as weak as he was. But he didn’t need to give his jittery brother any more reason to distrust him—there had to be another way to figure out what was going on.

“Relax, Sixer, even _I_ know you’d waste more energy resisting than I could get into you.”

“Don’t call me that,” Ford said.

“Alright then—relax, Stanford,” he said, then pausing as he remembered what he’d decided he’d bring up next. There was a hesitant silence.

“You know, I found some clean cloth bandages tucked away in a cupboard earlier,” Stanley finally said, “Do you want to maybe change those ones you’ve got on?”

“Why were you snooping around my house?”

There were two things Stan wasn’t going to admit in response to that, the first being that he had in fact been snooping everywhere he could think to look, because Ford wasn’t telling him _anything_. The second was that for all that poking around, it wasn’t actually how he’d found the bandages—he’d spent the afternoon washing and then fashioning them from a spare shirt he’d brought along. Frontier medicine at its most creative (and resource-less).

Ford hadn’t mentioned the latter, so the first was all Stan was going to bring up.

“Snooping? I _wasn’t_ snooping. But you did put me in a room, and it has some awfully messy cupboards.”

The look on Ford’s face wasn’t quite what he’d expected. Probably one of someone trying to remember if there were in fact bandages—or for that matter, a cupboard—in their makeshift guest bedroom. But he apparently conceded it was possible.

“Now…” Stan said slowly, “…about those bandages?”

Ford bit his lip, but to Stan’s surprise didn’t take long to obediently hold out both his hands. Considerably less resistance than he’d put up to the soup. Sing praise for small miracles.

When he unwrapped them, though, Stanley didn’t like what he saw underneath.

“Ford, these are chemical burns!” he said, familiar with the look of affected skin then rubbed raw from activity after seeing more than one mining accident. “The kind you get from metal-working and then... Are you _building_ something?”

“Just wrap them,” his brother said, more quietly than Stan had expected. Usually he was angry about Stan’s prying, but this was apparently one of those rare moments where he could ask a question and instead see Ford get caught in a moment of strange vulnerability. He sounded almost sad.

Stanley couldn’t make sense of those moments—on the one hand, they were the rare occasions he actually let Stan help him, no sign of ego or frustration or anything else that usually got in the way. He hoped maybe they were a sign that the person he cared about was still underneath all this hostility.

But on the other, every time they came, Ford seemed so broken.

If they were _actually_ rare glimpses of sanity, he worried about what his brother was becoming.

Regardless, he’d do what he could. Stan finished re-wrapping his brother’s red and blistered palms, idly wondering if he should be using a different technique with an extra finger present. Learning first-aid hadn’t been a necessity for him until he’d left home—and as a result, had never involved Ford.

“There,” he said once he’d finished, noting that Stanford shoved his hands in the pocket of his coat as soon as they were free. “Those should last you a little while.”

Ford just nodded, wordlessly, pulling one hand free again to grab the papers he’d set on the desk behind him. It seemed the time to ask him again for details, while he was the quietest and most in-control of his senses Stan had seen him yet, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it—not when they’d finally had an interaction that hadn’t ended in shouting, and also not when his brother looked so miserable. Maybe it would require some tiny steps to get there at all.

Whatever the case, he’d keep taking them.

 

***

 

 **[EXCERPT from the** **diary of Stanley Pines** ]

_January 8th, 1892_

_I came here with the concern that Stanford was mad, and I think I have my proof. Problem is, I don’t know what kind. Or at the very least, I can’t figure out if it’s both. It hurts like hell every time he tries to push me away, but I’m not so sure it’s all anger_ — _he really_ doesn’t _seem to be himself._

_I guess there’s no way to know for sure, not unless he improves. I think it makes sense to try to help him, for at least a little longer. Maybe there’s still a chance he doesn’t completely hate me..._

_...not to mention I’m worried and I can’t stand seeing him like this…_

_…who am I kidding, I’d probably keep trying even if he did. Maybe he is right about me._  
  
_Damn._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> VOHHS


	3. I Have Supped Full with Horrors

It was on the fifth day of his uneasy stay in his brother's home that Stanley finally came across the clue he so desperately needed. He'd been starting to fear that he was doomed to just fall into a routine of watching Ford without truly being able to help him, and cursing his limited knowledge of his brother's problems, until the day he decided to do a thorough tackle of the room he'd caught his twin in the most often _—_ his study.

Evening had fallen, and he crept into the room armed with trepidation and a candle, silently hoping more than literal light would be shed by his endeavor.

Success came when he found, buried under a pile of the assorted paper's that crowded every corner of Ford's living space, his brother's journal. It was worn and looked like it had been through hell, with the majority of the first pages ripped out for no apparent reason and the others ripped and fraying.

But unlike his empty days until then, it was something.

 

 

...

 

 **[From the journal of** **STANFORD PINES]**

* * *

_September 30th, 1891_

_Found fantastic fossil bed at the edge of the quarry!! Not sure when unearthed but still massively well-preserved. Took home several samples, have already tentatively identified (?) several possible Cretaceous fossils, including ONE I can’t find recorded in any of my glossaries. Hoping it may prove to be link between the strange life forms here and the prehistoric creatures of the region? (If there’s a distinct progression in the fossil record…… excellent evidence!!)_

* * *

_October 3rd, 1891_

_Observed INCREDIBLE specimen in the forest today, looked just like a_ Sylvilagus bachmani, _except antlered (would call a “jackalope” but obv. not even a_ Lepus -- _a wolperdinger variant? definitely lagomorphic)._

[scratched out] _maintains we must keep our focus but is our focus not the assorted anomalies of the forest? Needless to say I regret abandoning study of the creature, perhaps I can find it again later this week._

* * *

_October 5th, 1891_

_Will write only briefly today, I have a large experiment I wish to attend to and may be preoccupied until evening (remember!! bring something down to eat tonight, I will absolutely forget otherwise. These things have gotten more difficult without Fiddleford here.)_

_Things otherwise progressing smoothly, I have little to report. Hopefully will be more in future._

* * *

  _October 8th, 1891_

_...I may have reason to believe I am being deceived. Though I do not wish to jump to any conclusions, the rattling events of the past few days have little explanation beyond the supernatural -- forces of the supernatural that I had previously believed to be benign._

_When I awoke this morning I was disturbed to realize that my recall appears to have been tampered with. The last distinct memory I can summon is awaking the morning of the 6th, the day after I made my last journal entry, but at some point after that there is an indistinct void in my recollections._

_This development would be concerning enough in its own regard, but would probably have me attending to my health rather than inquiry into paranormal happenings were it not for the things I have discovered since (apparently) regaining my sensibilities—_

  * _The first, that my physical state removes all possibility of simply having slept the past few days as though from illness -- I seem to have sustained several inexplicable injuries, particularly on my hands, which I had to bandage this morning after noticing this_


  * _The second; there is a large tear in my wool coat that I cannot account my previous excursions with, and visible footprints in the mud outside my doorstep in the direction of the town, and back from it. Since Fiddleford left, I am the only one coming and going (or rather, admittedly, not doing so, until apparently the previous evening) from the house, and I have searched to ensure I am quite alone here, and found nothing. This must have been my own doing? But I have no memory…_



_Obviously I could assume this to be evidence of an intruder, but the house is empty, the tracks_ **_arriving_ ** _here are the fresher ones, and there_ **_is_ ** _the state of both my bandaged hands (in fact, I grow all the more convinced it was my own handiwork as the ache intensifies… were only it that recording these events served as kinder to the still-recovering writer!)_

 _In collecting the evidence I have only more questions. Perhaps this has something to do with_ [here the ink was violently scratched out for a sentence of two]

_Never has recollection of events been barred from me though, whether or not I was wholly present. I can only assume if it is, it’s because the purposes were ones he wanted concealed. I can’t imagine such deceit from him though, given previous honesty. Perhaps I’m only jumping to conclusions. We shall have to see if such an occurrence happens again (fingers are crossed not) and secondly if the intentions of whatever is behind the episode prove actually malevolent._

* * *

  _October 10th, 1891_

_Happened again. Would write more but HORRIFICALLY sore, can’t imagine reason? Head feels as if about to explode, I must unfortunately see to phys. concerns before investigating._

* * *

_October 12th, 1891_

_Though I was ill for the good bit of yesterday (a remnant of the episode so briefly recorded) I chose the confront_ [scratched out] _in the evening. He’s assured me has has no intents to cause harm, to myself or anyone, but that what I am experiencing could be a side effect of our arrangement. Apparently neither of us have previous evidence to contradict the assumption—_ [scratched out]  _has informed me that our agreement is in his **own** experience rather unique, as most reject his nature. _

_Was not told this previously -- I have no objections to serving as a test subject but would certainly have recorded more diligently had I known. I resolve to write more frequently._

* * *

_October 23rd, 1891_

_LIES!!!_

_Lies, all lies, my own included, for the greater shame of science &, my dignity! _

_Had the most horrific weeks, including PREVENTION from access to my journals, I will explain as possible but do not know if the ability will be wrenched from me. Have tried placing wards on the blasted thing after Bill sabotaged the majority to remove mentions of himself but, thankfully, for one limitation or another the last few remain unscathed._

_After I brought my concerns to him he apparently decided I was wising up too much to continue in our current fashion and proceeded to WRENCH control, I woke several hours after our conversation with a horrific headache. I have no knowledge how many times he’s done this before. If what Fiddleford said to me before he left is true, it may be many._

_I fear what he may have done._

* * *

_November 1st, 1891_

_Have essentially locked myself in the lab for the past week, attempting to find a solution before this all escalates._

_Fortunately my wards seem to be holding, so here I will attempt to document what I can for my own reference. The lines between reality, dreams, and when I am and am not myself are beginning to blur, I fear trusting my own perceptions_ _—_ _but here, here I will record the facts._

 _An exorcism seems the obvious choice but borders on the impossible_ _—_ _Bill watches my every move, and interferes should I try anything of the sort. Not to mention makes me worry slightly for my own well-being. I think now that we are on obviously conflicting terms his treatment of me is getting rougher..._

* * *

_November 5th, 1891_

_Now that he need no longer hide his most nefarious actions Bill has been using me as a puppet for what I fear may be deeds of the vilest sort. The past few nights I have awoken to blood on my own clothing that I can almost assure is not mine (no visible wounds to be found, suppose it could be a nosebleed but… unlikely). Without presence of my own mind when these acts were perpetrated I think I must assume the worst, if only to spur my research further and prevent greater harm to anyone on my fault_

_For some, it may be too late. Alas! Though I must remain clinical in manner as to prevent greater damage I already mourn what my hands may have wrought._

* * *

_November 8th, 1891_

_Today’s experiment goes down as a failure, as well as an instance I need to nurse my wounds. If I have forgotten and am reading this as reference in the future_ _—_ _REMEMBER, DO NOT ATTEMPT TO GET RID OF BILL BY_

[writing trails off into incoherent scribbling]

[there is blood on the page]

* * *

_November 11th, 1891_

_DON’T SLEEP!!!!!!_

* * *

_November 14th, 1891_

_Can't get hopeless can't give up, there is ALWAYS a solution can't can't CAN'T._

* * *

_November 20th, 1891_

_All ways out continuously thwarted._

_Perhaps time to give up._

* * *

  _November 21st, 1891_

_Forgive me for my moment of melodrama in making the entry last night, this time may be trying me but I must remember to KEEP MY HEAD above all else._

_I'd like to disclose my plans here, for posterity if no other reason (and future reference, my mind is... frequently other places. I hesitate to describe any sanity slippage, as it is the one resource I have had most consistently at my disposal, but precaution is something altogether different from fear. Reference, I only wish to do this for.... reference.....) But Bill reading them is a chance I cannot take. And so instead I attempt to impart myself, should I read over this, with other resolve._  
  
_"Science is bound, by the everlasting vow of honour, to face fearlessly every problem which can be fairly presented to it." (Kelvin)_

_There MUST be an answer. Retain, above all else, your mind._

* * *

  _November 25th, 1891_

_All other plans put on hold tonight, I had hopes but must attend to certain injuries. Bill is... but no, no, dwelling on the circumstances of this all is beside the point and only a possible source of melancholy. Needless to say, the two ribs I feared for are likely only cracked, nothing more severe. I suppose anyone else would prescribe a rest but that is a luxury I will not allow myself in such dire straits._

_A shame the only medicinal-sellers that come through the town simply peddle nostrums, something to dull the pain would probably be the best mode of action or treatment. Perhaps I've come across something in my studies that would help._

* * *

  _November 26th, 1891_

_Forced to take that rest. Ache all over._

_Would write more but it's all rather an unpleasant exertion._

* * *

  _December 3rd, 1891_

_Writing is getting far more difficult, but I forge on (I KNOW this is his plan and I refuse to let it work)._

_Not that I can impart much meaningful information. It simply gives me... routine. A spot of possible sanity._

_I need that._

_Please let that remain._

* * *

  _December 5th, 1891_

_Will this writing be here when I check again???? The nightmares are getting more vivid (that or, the reality is getting altogether more nightmarish, all are now one and the same to me), I no longer trust what I have actually done._

* * *

  _December 9th, 1891_

_Bill has decided to take things once again beyond the realm of Nightmare, I shiver at the mental toll but ache once again from the physical. He must have some purpose beyond simply amusement at my pain under his control but I cannot conceive what it may be. Perhaps an attempt to discourage me from fighting back but this is an UNDERESTIMATION; I refuse to capitulate to his terrorizing._

_I will fight as long as I have it in me, and beyond that._

_No longer so sure what I do have in me, however. To risk a bit of humor at my own expense, significantly less blood._

_Alas, my material's not at its best. But to dwell on this all too heavily is a recipe for more certain doom than anything else._

* * *

  _December 10th, 1891_

_The Project progresses with alarming speed, as for all my defiance I cannot stop my own hands in this vile work._

_I need a solution, and quickly if it is to stop this._

* * *

  _December 13th, 1891_

_The violence continues._

_...I wish I could elaborate, if only to ground myself, but I'm left feeling quite faint._

_How much of me remains? Ha! In more ways than one. Am I to watch all of me vanish under the demon's ravages? He cannot even leave me my mind._

_LEAVE ME MY MIND!!!_

* * *

_December 17th, 1891_

_Running out of first aid supplies (peroxide gone as of particularly violent bout last night). Have been intentionally avoiding town but one arm bandage is bleeding through. Will they see me? Will they know?_

_Do they know……?_

_They know they know they KNOW. (Thought I heard footsteps outside the other day anyways…)_

_Risk too great!!_

* * *

  _December 25th, 1891_

_Have been painfully sick the past week, could barely rise to do anything. Bill's ways are taking their toll, I fear, and on more than just my brain (preferred, I suppose _—AGA_ IN, I ENTREAT, LEAVE ME MY MIND..........) _

_Sufficiently weakening and painful, but I may be developing an idea. Terrible, terrible, I fear, and not my preferred mode of resolution for this. But perhaps... all I have left to work with._

* * *

_December 28th, 1891_

_Yes, I know, unfortunately what I must do. If I write it, He will know. But I am resolved._

* * *

_December 30th, 1891_

_Third night of attempting to beat the demon at his own game (YES that is my terrible thought). growing weak_

_Obviously this is the intent; if i’m incapable of action my body will be useless to him_

_Also Making it hard to think. almost caved, & went to kitchen but I intend to sleep off the hunger instead. Bill cant use me if i can’t use myself _

* * *

_december 31st, 1891_

_blastd fingers always hated them anyways woke to them bleeding.bill’s still using me for somthing_

_not sure whether the guilt or physical condition are more debilltating at moment_

_……..would like to sleep..................too many nightmares_

* * *

_january 2nd, 1892_

[several incomprehensible penstrokes, spilled ink]

* * *

_january 3rd, 1892_

_“yiye qzy apnk vglz qc ecryhj?” dems vhr lhthig vo gaw qpc; “_

_’iks gaw aviivirll wmxine ctjwsv ijag xnpv cdw dvw kac._

_xwg wnr ayxs ba pnkdzv mh wp n payhmci sgtac,_

_ers k hnow xern rrrmlj xlxpgf mg dlsl yhrg qzy egg tuxjp.”_

_“s rd, po,” ftao xlt nigmdp jpn, “vo nlc xi mh kn itay,_

_jsg yhb zgpw ye aohk otrhxpg fmstv gpp nr’xj nsqt fojg sremc.”_

 

_“k’m fnjp csj oufm tp aipty, qxsc, amij sbtjtrk jr sb aarl;_

_axnl lhm ciwi wpbg ej pmivlr uwo?” wexf tux kamhtt tb mzp jpn._

_“vhrkw lvi etegmq nyvicial vceac crbnfo, xlt uhrxld evt hiax syh xwkn,_

_ngv tj cdw lvdw es vtut npztpi, x’nl fgmrpc iwcx rgf mr.”_

_“d po, ah,” klmh ije yblepi uny, “shj t’zi dhtrg zpevs kt ftao,_

_xlta nrowc, rikgr jtcp ekpkn, jag dpitr uchf jsyg deq.”_

 

_lsth xwg chgftrk hriqxj es xwg fyr, “vpev utirgv, hlei uhned t hs,_

_iq pehnp xlt yaef sqjirvibg a’gi eayall xppx uqr lhm?_

_t lekg wvmztr qn raamjj ksdf sghjp sj pnl gase’w rxee;_

_v’f kfvi nqu’ex npvc lglphep; aman ybn hwiehg tb msvi e hnipx?”_

_“g ys, rd,” uavw lsi pxvtyx xwc, “oxpd fbj, elei eaagge fi;_

_x’xe uxsch awct’f bf jsyg raamjj, ers k db gge amhj tb lwp.”_

 

_“watgt pkwlxygg!” snbv eli hriqxj, “jsy’gg wvmlj ers aoh’kw hmwt!_

_joj asyhwdoe nkw jsyg iahsq hmrvu, hbp tcmpakaam sci cdwr rrwd!_

_m lpxe n eaexpt nobdayk-kacsf nhzr qn raeegc wltnf,_

_vy qzy’pa utri ay srt oozxfe, hipt, ybn ksepa deuhdo csjtsrex.”_

_“t xlppk lhm, ririne fbj,” dli hciq, “ygc alpv ybn’jp tptcsrw lz wen,_

_cnq uaohmci ybn yzsh-bqrabfr rsl, k’ly vswp ecqtuxj oec.”_

 

_ije fiaoiv iwraxv smq gquaw smsyi, cnq pwyx mcvo ubk oir,_

_uqr jxdw li zpej mzp wmany seq hsyaf sbhf mi fpek nzstr:_

_wd je jhnp e wjdtyx opf, mc c lvmlwi gdtnrk kwc,_

_ecf srm ztw xpdlr kwlhc iq dvgw ftsc vhr ydj._

_xltp hr vsxi sjv tb aad hsdt attay, ers oeekawc hxf svgy_

_“nsqt jigawc, lmijee, ijpxxn hll, pael xwg prtjw ers uiyowc amci:_

_ybnj csftu aex yciic cnq imctpt; vhrkw’d e gggsg nhzr cdwr uxso;_

_csjt elxk lvi akkr mzp hmpooaw tcmkwv, bhm etri pte qndw ew agaq.”_

 

_tdlw, eacs! uho givn uobg lsmw hklyr dtxxag fyr,_

_zpevxpg ubk hmpn hlnmlpvmci wbkvd, gebg syhowc jaktgbfr fc._

_lktu umkdmci wvgyd wlt juaz swsji, vhrg fpev ppd axsciv stej_

_mztroxpg bgdj sj wgr okawpmppt rrwd, ers irrxf lrh ewrcew syi;_

_ijiadayk scny by zpv gggsgxv sies — robk xzspxuh gaayk! ei nafm,_

_ma nybreq mzp gycpiaz kamhtt, aaw xtivrgll awwh ltt fnll._

_si hgcgtxv siv jr hvl otrhxpg fmstv, mcvo ubk omwbcl qxf,_

_hmxwkn ubk wmxine ctjwsv; qwt faw yi’ig eazx gfx evcia!_

 

_tfo rsl, fenk dtxxag cubdovic, yhb fsj xlxu sghjj vipf,_

_tb bvwi, wxnll, ydlxxttiaz ozvhh, k petq jsy cg’ee zagi ltgd;_

_hglz er txiy vgfrwtnoe vdzwi wgaem, syh ipt, aaw wji,_

_ecf tndw l pihuoa yjzq xwks gtdp sj ije fiaoiv ppd gaw qpc._

 

... 

 

“Enjoying your reading?” came a voice from behind Stanley before he could finish. Only a few pages remained, as they were nearing the present _—_ but he had other worries now.

He felt his blood run colder than the words themselves. It was Stanford’s voice, but in the tone he’d been so chilled by the night he arrived, dripping of uncharacteristic coolness and charm and very generally “Not-Stanford’ _—_ “Bill”, maybe, if his brother’s journal was any clue?

He turned around slowly to face him, and shuddered when he saw that unsettling grin plastered across Ford’s features. Now that he knew he had reason to look closer, he couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t come across as more off-putting before in this state _—_ eyes tinged with an unnatural almost-glow and pupils dilated akin to a cat’s. Just off enough to be disturbing, but not so much to have tipped him off earlier. Was it too late?

“Yeah,” he said slowly, hoping maybe his brother was still in there somewhere, and more present than the rambling madman he’d watched him devolve into in his journal. “Though I’m sorry for prying. Just don’t wanna worry Ma, you know? Seeing as you won’t talk with me....”

“Oh we can talk, Stanley,” Not-Ford said. His eyes glinted with a frightening yellow light. “I _love_ to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Use the standard Rule of Three  
> In old Notes past you'll find the key
> 
> (if anybody uses my little clues to solve ford's cipher in this chapter, shoot me an ask with the title of the solution at http://aroford.tumblr.com/ —i'm curious to see if anyone does, and i'd like to congratulate you!)


	4. The Serpent Under't

Stanley squirmed uneasily in his seat. When he’d been caught in the study, incriminating journal in hand, by _—_ by whatever that _thing_ masquerading as his brother was _—_ he’d honestly feared the worst. Obviously whatever it was hadn’t gone easy on Ford. Why should he be any different? But on the contrary, it was behaving creepily courteously.

“Is this… tea?” he said, peering into the cup that had been placed on the table in front of him. For reasons yet unknown he’d been dragged into the cabin parlor, seated, and offered a beverage.

Being completely honest, it gave him the creeps. Something socking him in the jaw he knew how to deal with; something evil he could treat as evil. But this felt like _scheming_.

Ugh.

“Naturally,” came the reply. Stan shuddered again at the voice that was so obviously not Ford’s coming from his brother’s mouth. It just didn’t feel right.

“...Where’ve you been hiding it?” he said, trying to mask his discomfort with a nervous joke. “I turned the pantry upside-down the other night.”

Not-Ford smiled chillingly and waved a hand, the picture of nonchalance. “I have a stash.”

Because of course the malevolent being inhabiting Ford’s body and making his twin’s life a living hell for the past few months would hoard _tea._

“Look, your hospitality is…” Stan hesitated, then spat out his conclusion sarcastically, “...delightful. Closest thing I’ve gotten to a welcome here, actually. But I can’t help but notice that you’re _not my brother._ ”

“Oh, so he’s the better conversationalist?”

Stanley raised a finger to object, then left his mouth open awkwardly when he realized he didn’t have a decent response. “No, actually,” he said. “Ford’s never understood the words ‘small talk’ in his life. But I’d still rather him here than you.”

“Harsh words! But don’t worry, Fordsy’s still in here too.”

Stan shuddered. “Is he… I mean… can he hear me?”

“Oh no, he won’t remember anything. Your little human brains can only handle so much.”

Head swimming with equal parts concern, confusion, and curiosity, Stan decided to address the thing point-blank.

“So this is some kind of possession deal, right? You decided you were gonna prey on my brother, waltzed into his head, and _—_ ”

 _“—_ possession, yes. Deal, also yes. Waltzing… not so much my speed. It takes two to tango.”

“What?”

“Mr. Braniac was the one who opened the door, buddy. But you’re taking this all in pretty slowly for someone who’s done their reading, so how about I give you the annotated version? We’ll start with introductions. Name’s ‘Bill Cipher’.”

So this _was_ “Bill”. Not actually that encouraging, given how Ford wrote about him, even if it did start to connect some puzzle pieces.

“Stanley Pines,” he said slowly.

“Oh, I know _all_ about you. At least, as much as this guy,” Bill paused, making Ford tap his temple with an extended index finger, “keeps filed away in his grey matter. Or wherever. But trust me, it’s a lot.”

Stan tried to avoid overthinking that remark. He wasn’t so sure he wanted to know what Ford thought about him at all anymore. Mostly out of the fear that it would hurt.

“Anyways, I’ll give you the speed-read,” Bill said. “Your brother got a little too curious for his own good _—_ at the same time he was looking into the occult. I’ve got my own plans, so we cut a deal. He’d help me by being my physical foothold into your world, I’d throw in millennia worth of the kind of knowledge that doesn’t exactly get put in libraries. Unfortunately he decided he didn’t want to keep up his end of things.”

“You mean you’re some kind of…” Stanley bit his tongue, hesitating on the word “...demon?”

It was the only thing he could think of, decidedly paranormal or not, that made bargains and took over bodies _—_ and something his heart sank at thinking about Ford so much as rubbing elbows with.

“You could say that,” Bill replied. “If you _had_ to use a label.”

“I call things like they are,” he said, feeling a sliver of anger start to bubble in his chest, “and what I’m hearing is that you’re some goddamn demon that tricked my brother into doing their dirty work for th _—_ ”

“ _—_ Let’s not jump to conclusions. All I did was _coax_ . Your poor _sap_ of a brother is so desperate for approval that all it took was a couple compliments to make him trust me. From there, it was a short walk to greater things.”

“Things that are hurting him!”

“He’s the one that agreed to this. Wanted answers pretty badly.”

“Curiosity killed the cat,” Stanley spat back.

“Big words coming from a snoop like you,” Bill said, laughing when Stanley’s eyes widened. “Oh yeah, I know all about your little detective stint this week. It’s been funny to watch!”

“You’ve been… watching me?”

“Hey now, I mean, you had the potential to throw a real wrench in my plans, pal. Sixer here I can control, but any other variables? Let’s just say I’ve appreciated that he’s basically a hermit.”

“If I’m such a threat, how come you even let me inside?” Stanley asked. “Ford was gonna throw me out in the rain; I know it was you that changed his mind.”

Though he was confident in the statement, Stan almost hoped Bill would deny it—there wasn’t much to take comfort in if he acknowledged that his own brother would have kicked him out, but the _demon_ let him stay.

Instead, he just felt his heart sink as gleeful malice glinted in unnaturally yellow eyes. “I couldn’t judge how you were going to react. For all I knew, your next choice would make my plans harder—better to have you safely in my sights. And where if you started causing trouble, I could deal with you as needed. After all, it’s not every decade I find someone pathetic enough to give me the control your brother has, and it’d get hard to use him properly if some concerned relative checked in and got him committed to an asylum.”

“I’d never do that to him!” Stanley said sharply.

“No, you wouldn’t,” Bill said, “which I was exceedingly glad to learn. Really, the limits of your sentiment are _almost_ as useful as your twin’s self-esteem. As far as I can tell, neither seem to exist. It’s made you excellent accomplices.”

“ _…Accomplices?_ ” Stanley said incredulously. “Look, I don’t know what you’ve been using Ford for, but I ain’t helping you with any time soon.”

“Oh but you already have!” Bill said “I mean, my first fear was that you might try putting Fordsy here,” the demon paused, again tapping the side of the mentioned party’s head with his right index finger mockingly, “out of his misery. But on the contrary, you’ve been patching him up pretty nicely. Seeing as he’d started refusing to do that himself, it’s very helpful.”

“You mean... you’re not the one hurting him?” Stanley asked, and caught himself shuddering slightly when his conversational partner made a shrugging motion. He knew Bill was the one pulling the strings, but watching Ford’s body respond nonchalantly to his own suffering was deeply unsettling.

“He’s taken some damage on our little excursions, I’ll admit,” Bill said. “I mean, it’s not my fault your squishy little bodies are so fragile, and I’ve got _work_ to be doing. And yeah, when he got the idea to be uncooperative I had some fun. I figured if I kept him scared he’d stop trying to open up those books on exorcism and hope I’d go easy on him. But he had to keep entertaining delusions of _defeating_ me. So we had a couple unplanned excursions down the stairs. You know, that sort of thing.”

Stanley felt both of his fists clench, the same protective instincts he’d had throughout their entire childhood kicking in, as his mind was drawn towards some of the darker passages in his brother’s journal.

“But no,” Bill said, paying him no mind, “for the most part it doesn’t do me much good for my vessel here to get all banged up. Which lead to Sixer getting _really_ hard to work with. He realized that if he took himself out, I’d have problems too. Pretty annoying plan. I mean, if he’d tried anything _drastic_ I could always jump in to stop him, but the little stuff—eating, sleeping, all those dumb little fleshbag necessities—those are a lot harder for me to make him do. And seeing as I get kicked out if he’s too exhausted… well, you can see the problem. I was actually starting to get a little worried until you showed up!”

Feeling his heart sink as Bill spoke, Stanley’s mind flashed to all the times his brother had tried to resist his help. As much as he didn’t _want_ to accept the explanation… it definitely filled in some logical gaps.

 _Ford,_ he found himself thinking, _what have you been doing to yourself?_

“So what you’re telling me is,” he said after a moment, “I can either keep trying to take care of my brother, but know that it’s helping _you_ the whole time and hurting _him_ —“

“—or watch him wither up and die under the weight of his own mistakes like he was trying to do before you came here, yeah. That’s pretty much it! Of course, I’ve watched you enough to know you’re sentimental to a fault, so I really can’t see you taking the latter route.”

“Oh, the second option’s exactly what I’m planning,” Stan said, and took a slight note of pride in the fact that for the first time in the conversation, Bill actually expressed something that made Ford’s borrowed features look surprised.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, you didn’t let me finish talking, and my version’s a little different—I can either watch him suffer like I said, or I can get rid of _you_.”

Bill raised one of Ford’s eyebrows and twisted his mouth into a smirk. “I’d like to see you try. But just remember, pal _—_ I’m keeping you around because you’re doing me some favors. More than you know, actually. You do something that messes that up and… well…” he lifted his teacup slowly, tilting it until the still-steaming contents escaped and spilled across several of Stanley’s fingers. Stan yanked them away quickly, noticing the affected skin turn an angry pink from the heat.

“…I can take you out of the picture,” Bill finished. “And inconvenient as that might be for you, I _also_ doubt there’s anyone else that’ll bother to help Sixer if you’re gone _—_ he’s never really been one for friends. So think about that.”

Before Stanley really knew what was happening, Ford _(_ _—_ _Bill?)_ ’s eyes rolled back into his head. He slumped forward limply, dropping the empty teacup and letting it shatter on the floor as it slipped from loose fingers. Stan caught him as best as he could, worrying that he might be injured by a fall, but still preoccupied with the last words he’d heard come from his brother’s mouth.

It was just moments later that his eyes fluttered open again, and Stan breathed a sigh of relief to note they were clear and brown, if very filled with the anxiety he’d started to accept was now a permanent feature of Ford’s expression.

“…Stanley?” he asked tiredly, then shot up suddenly, “This was… this was nothing. I’ve just been feeling a bit—“

“—he told me everything, Ford,” Stan sighed, noting a nervous look in his brother’s eyes that was still curiously tinged with another that might have been relief. “Bill did, I mean. While you... weren’t here. He caught me with your journal, it was a little inevitable. And… look, I’m sorry for prying like that, but you just weren’t telling me _anything!”_

Ford hung his head, not speaking for far, far too long. Eventually though, he broke the silence in a shaky voice that barely hovered above a whisper. “I… I didn’t know what to do. You know why, if he told you…”

“I’ve got an idea, yeah, but Ford that’s not important right now. You shouldn’t have had to ‘not know’ alone!”

“I shouldn’t ‘not know’ anything,” Ford said, still quietly. “I make a point of that.”

“There are things _nobody_ knows, Stanford.”

They sat there in awkward silence for what might have been a full minute, but felt more like a millennium. Stan eventually took it upon himself to shatter the quiet.

“I’m gonna help you, you know.”

“You’ve made that very clear, yes,” Ford said tiredly. “I just don’t see _how_. He can use me for whatever he wants, and that includes watching you. If you even start to _look_ like you’re making any progress…”

“I’ll work on it without you around, okay? _I’m_ not about to make any deals.”

“Stanley, do you even know _anything_ about demonology?”

He opened his mouth to protest, but for one reason or another—the fear that he _didn’t_ know enough to help his brother, the stubborn unwillingness to admit that that was an obstacle—nothing came out.

Ford just sighed. “As I suspected. I honestly don’t know how much you can—“

“—If the next words out of your mouth have _anything_ to do with ‘giving up’, I swear to God—”

“—they weren’t going to!” Ford snapped.

“Well good, ‘cause I’m here to tell you thatthe plan you were running with before I got here is _literally_ the worst idea you’ve had in your entire life. And that’s coming from someone who remembers the tidepool incident.”

The flush of embarrassed pink that graced his twin’s cheeks was the most color he’d seen on the man since arriving on his doorstep.

“All I was going to say is I can think of one other person you might want to talk to,” Ford said. “Bill probably won’t let me give you details, but as far as I know my former assistant is…” he trailed off, awkwardly staring into space instead of speaking.

“...former assistant is…?” Stanley pressed, trying to balance his annoyance and patience with his brother. On the one hand, the man had been going through hell. On the other, he seemed dead-set on making it impossible to drag him _out_ of it.

“...I believe my former assistant is still in town,” Ford said delicately, “Although we hardly parted on the best of terms. I’m not even sure he wants to see my face again. You though…”

“We’re twins, Ford. It’s pretty much the same face.”

“Not literally!”

Stanley smirked slightly as he heard a tiny bit of the exasperation Ford used to express at his jokes creep into his voice.

“All I meant to say is he might be able to educate you on the subject, without me being present,” Ford continued. “If you ask around town, maybe…”

“He the guy you mentioned in your journal?” Stanley asked, and noted that his brother nodded mutely. It was like Ford was terrified to speak aloud any information that Bill might deem incriminating enough to wrench control away.

“...I’ll poke around later,” Stanley said.

“Later?”

“We’ve got some other priorities first.”

“Priorities?”

Ford looked bewildered, and if he hadn’t felt so sorry for him Stanley probably would have had to stifle a laugh at the picture of his brother sitting on the floor, legs splayed out rather awkwardly from his fall, face screwed up in confusion, echoing all his sentences like a very startled parrot.

“ _You_ , wise guy,” he said, holding out a hand for Ford to pull himself up. He kept talking as his brother obliged. “I have it on fairly logical word that neither of us is going to suffer horribly if I drag you to the kitchen and see what I can dredge up for us from the barren wasteland of your cupboards.”

He had a sneaking suspicion that something had shifted—that the pattern of Stanford adamantly refusing his help had started to vanish with other deceits that evening. Or very early morning as it probably was. But it still came as a relief when Ford didn’t yank his hand away at the comment.

“No dragging necessary,” he said quietly, and gave Stanley the first _real_ smile—even if it was a weary-looking ghost of one—he’d seen since coming here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the only chapter in the story without any assorted writings in it (be they letters, journal entries, or anything else), mostly because i thought it all really needed to be told through dialogue. to compensate though, you get one in the author's note! 
> 
> i loved hearing back from everyone who solved the journal cipher last chapter, (great work you guys!!) but for anyone who didn't, or who would just like to read it again, i'm sharing the text here
> 
> it was a vigenère cipher with the keyword "CANTSLEEP" and the encoded poem was Mary Howitt's "The Spider and the Fly" -- both era-appropriate and (i thought) a decent metaphor for Ford's disastrous interactions with Bill. the poem itself is described as "a cautionary tale against those who use flattery and charm to disguise their true evil intentions", which i think sounds like Bill in any 'verse
> 
> "“Will you walk into my parlor?” said the spider to the fly;  
> “’Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy.  
> The way into my parlor is up a winding stair,  
> And I have many pretty things to show when you are there.”  
> “O no, no,” said the little fly, “to ask me is in vain,  
> For who goes up your winding stair can ne’er come down again.”
> 
> “I’m sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high;  
> Will you rest upon my little bed?” said the spider to the fly.  
> “There are pretty curtains drawn around, the sheets are fine and thin,  
> And if you like to rest awhile, I’ll snugly tuck you in.”  
> “O no, no,” said the little fly, “for I’ve often heard it said,  
> They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed.”
> 
> Said the cunning spider to the fly, “Dear friend, what shall I do,  
> To prove the warm affection I’ve always felt for you?  
> I have within my pantry good store of all that’s nice;  
> I’m sure you’re very welcome; will you please to take a slice?”  
> “O no, no,” said the little fly, “kind sir, that cannot be;  
> I’ve heard what’s in your pantry, and I do not wish to see.”
> 
> “Sweet creature!” said the spider, “You’re witty and you’re wise!  
> How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!  
> I have a little looking-glass upon my parlor shelf,  
> If you’ll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself.”  
> “I thank you, gentle sir,” she said, “for what you’re pleased to say,  
> And bidding you good-morning now, I’ll call another day.”
> 
> The spider turned him round about, and went into his den,  
> For well he knew the silly fly would soon be back again:  
> So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly,  
> And set his table ready to dine upon the fly.  
> Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing  
> “Come hither, hither, pretty fly, with the pearl and silver wing:  
> Your robes are green and purple; there’s a crest upon your head;  
> Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead.”
> 
> Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little fly,  
> Hearing his wily flattering words, came slowly flitting by.  
> With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew  
> Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue;  
> Thinking only of her crested head — poor foolish thing! At last,  
> Up jumped the cunning spider, and fiercely held her fast.  
> He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den,  
> Within his little parlor; but she ne’er came out again!
> 
> And now, dear little children, who may this story read,  
> To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne’er give heed;  
> Unto an evil counselor close heart, and ear, and eye,  
> And take a lesson from this tale of the Spider and the Fly."


	5. Receive What Cheer You May

The slight “ding-a-ling” of the bell on the door of the town’s general store (only store, as far as he could tell) that chimed as Stanley pushed the heavy thing open was obnoxiously cheerful. Maybe any other time, when he hadn’t just spent the past days stifled in a house that practically exuded the word “unsettling” and wasn’t fearing for his brother’s — and possibly own — life, it would only have been mildly annoying, but at the moment it only chimed of mood dissonance and earned itself a place on the list of things he’d really like to punch.

That list had expanded a lot this week.

The shopkeeper raised an eyebrow when he walked in. She didn’t say anything, just continued wiping off the counter as she had been while the door slammed shut behind him. 

He shivered slightly, stamping his boots in the entryway. The drizzling rain that had misted over the town on his arrival had, during his week or so in Ford’s gloomy cabin, morphed into wildly whipping, icy snow. And the whistling howls it made screeching past boarded windows and tiny gaps the less-than-upkept building he’d been holed inside since Tuesday night might be one reason the place made him so on edge — here in the store, he was warmer and more at peace than he’d felt for a while.

Mental note: with the current weather and more pressing issues, he didn’t have time to try to help Ford fix up his house. But if the weather was going to keep up like this, he should probably add “blankets” to the list of supplies they needed. The last thing he and  _ especially  _ his brother needed right now was for one of them to catch something stupid. Even a bout of the flu could be a disaster.

“Didn’t expect to see you here again,” the shopkeeper said, dragging him back from his thoughts. 

Although not entirely, as the word that came out of his mouth in response was “Blankets?”

She raised her eyebrow again and he corrected himself. “Sorry, sorry, meant to ask you ‘why’?”

“Figured after we warned you, you either skipped town or went up there anyways — and anybody who does  _ that  _ probably isn’t coming back. A week passed and people were getting worried.”

Stan had been about to respond by snapping back “There’s nothing dangerous up there!” but decided that was definitely some sort of a lie. Maybe it wasn’t true in the way the townsfolk thought, but he supposed there  _ had  _ been some truth to their warnings.

“My brother isn’t dangerous,” he eventually decided on saying, hoping it touched on enough truth to keep the gossip at bay without being an outright lie, “He just needs help.”

“Say what you want,” she shrugged, “I’ll take the fact you’re back here after this long as evidence the guy has some human decency. But I’ve heard too many rumors  _ not _ to worry about you, holed up out there with someone who’s at best some kind of lunatic.”

Stan wondered if he could dispel anyone’s rumor-based prejudices by telling them that their town “lunatic” was, if still the way he he left him, curled up nervously under the one good quilt he’d found for him and attempting to sleep — having just protested weakly over the first real food he’d eaten in days, that he “ _ didn’t care”  _ if he needed this because  _ “the nightmares would be worse.” _

He’d felt terrible leaving him alone.

“Look I just need some supplies” he sighed, deciding the time to repair his brother’s reputation would come after they’d made progress with his mind. And for that matter, body. The main reason he was even here.

“What’re you looking for?” she said, leaning on the counter, as if to get a better look at him. 

Stan found himself mentally ticking off (or at least trying to, dammit, he should have written this down in a notebook or something, maybe Ford was onto something with his habit of constant scribbling) as many of the things he’d found himself wishing he had around in the last week.

“Umm…. depends on what you got, but I’m mostly looking to restock essentials.”

She nodded along as he listed off some staples, pausing with Stanley as he hesitated and remembered taking things too fast with Ford (who was still very generously described as “recovering” and now poking at food suspiciously not because he he refused to eat, but because it made him feel ill very quickly) wouldn’t do him any favors either, and decided that along with some things of substance he might want to grab a couple boxes of plain crackers. She started to frown, though, when he hit the medical supplies.

“And I think it’d be good to pick up a bottle of peroxide — ” he was saying when she cut him off.

“ — You positive that man hasn’t done something to you?” 

“It’s  _ for  _ him,” Stanley snapped, finally slamming a hand on the counter in frustration. He’d been irritated the whole time she talked about Ford earlier, but hearing it constantly was really starting to get on his nerves. Maybe it was the product of years spent as a kid, telling his brother he was worth more than the things people said about him, but he couldn’t take it anymore. “God, what about him has you people convinced he’s a monster? Poor guy thinks it about himself often enough, I doubt you’re helping any.”

“I…” she started, eyes still a bit wide from the surprise of his reaction, then frowned. “Look, people out here don’t keep to themselves. It’s not a choice. Without help, the frontier will eat you alive. That was enough to start the suspicions, but no one really took them seriously until he holed up entirely. He had that assistant of his, you know? Who was really the only one ever in town but it was normal enough. Then one day _ that  _ poor man drags himself down here from their lab with fear in his eyes and rambling about a ‘demon’ bent on destruction… what do you think we assumed?”

“...That…. there was a demon?” Stanley said, he thought fairly obviously. Or maybe not. Who knows, maybe he was just biased — having tea with one could do that to you.

She just laughed. “There’s all sorts of weird things out here. We’re used enough to them. As far as I can tell, that’s what those two academic-types were  _ studying _ . For him to suddenly act terrified… someone doesn’t just flip their perspective like that on a whim.”

“You don’t think it was a literal…” Stanley said slowly, truth dawning on him, “well, maybe  _ some  _ of you do given what I heard earlier, but…. you think it was  _ Ford  _ that — ”

“ — any man that gets called a  _ demon _ by a former friend is someone I’d advise steering clear of,” she said matter-of-factly, crossing her arms. “‘Especially a recluse that dabbles with forces beyond his control. I don’t know if what he does up there is science or black magic or  _ both _ but the whole town’s scared of it.”

“Trust me, when it comes to his work, Ford’s as scared of people getting caught in the crossfire as anyone,” Stan said sadly. “He’s not here to hurt anyone.”

“Well he hasn’t been so convincing,” she said, but Stan was pleased to note left it there. “Anyways, we should have everything you said you were looking for in stock.”

“Thanks,” he said gruffly, “Wasn’t sure with the snow and everything…”

“Right.”

The silence was awkward to the point of heavy, and they didn’t converse more after that with the exception of when she rang up his purchase. He supposed it wasn’t fair to blame her — if he was seeing all this from the outside, he might be reacting with more suspicion himself. As it was, he knew his worry for his brother probably seriously clouded his judgement. Maybe more than was healthy, but he couldn’t help it.

As he was about to leave though, he decided there was one more topic he’d try.

“You said it was his assistant that got you all worked up,” he said, “Is the guy still in town?”

“Far as I know,” she said. “He has his own place, kinda on the outskirts. No one’s seen him for a long time though. Some people are saying he went crazy.”

Stanley gulped. His only other source of information, and he might be harder to get to talk than Ford was. Of course.

“You got the address?” he asked. “I need to ask him some questions about… well. I need to talk with him.”

She raised an eyebrow again. “Oh?”

“Look, if I told you this might concern more than  _ one _ man’s sanity would you help me out here?”

She pursed her lips, but started to scrawl something on the back of a piece of paper. Stanley breathed a sigh of relief he didn’t even know he’d been holding. The lead was still a possibility.   
  


***

 

GRAVITY FALLS GOSSIPER                                                                                                                                                                                   September 28th, 1891

 

**_DARK FORCES AT WORK IN GRAVITY FALLS?_ **

_ article by Toby Determined _

 

As most residents are by now aware, there was disruption in normal activities yesterday when one of the pair of visiting researchers that have set up just outside of town attempted to warn everyone of a “great danger” — though details were ambiguous.

Fiddleford H. McGucket, the member of the duo most of us are familiar with at all, came into town in a panic yesterday, raving about demons and destruction. (To anyone who hasn’t spoken to him before, these are unusual topics of conversation for the man. He’s generally known for mild-mannered and polite conversation, not apocalyptic warnings). 

While has frantic yelling was pretty hard to understand, everyone who heard the man has at least understood one part of the message: there’s something off about McGucket’s research partner. No one in town really knows Dr. Pines, who it seems rarely leaves the lab they have, and with our single informant on him suddenly spouting dire warnings about his colleague’s activities, it’s advised to take caution should he start suddenly changing his actions. While his friend’s warnings of the supernatural are likely exaggerated (though that hasn’t kept the town from speculating! Gravity Falls has become a rumor mill overnight!) what’s clear enough is that something’s off about him. Perhaps he’s simply abandoned morality, or been gripped by madness, or maybe there really is something spooky about the entire affair. Either way, the town is going to continue to have something to say about it….

McGucket hasn’t been seen since his outburst.   
  


***

 

For the second time recently, Stanley found himself sighing at the building a scrap of paper lead him to. First Ma’s letter with Ford’s dilapidated address and now... this.

The cabin Stanford’s lab assistant supposedly lived in was no more welcoming than his brother’s house had been, windows boarded up and strange symbols painted on the planks in bright red paint (most of them resembling a single eye, a massive “x” slashed across it).

He didn’t have time to hesitate at the door, sensing that the snow had picked up has he shivered and pulled on of the hands shoved in his pockets out to knock.  _ Damn, _ it was getting cold. He didn’t like leaving Ford alone in his state in this kind of weather. (Even if his brother actually _had_ been asleep when he got back with supplies earlier. A miracle.) He’d have to try to drag this guy back to his brother’s place as soon as possible to check up on him.

The door opened with a creak, he was pleased to note, no awkward delay like he’d faced with Stanford, and he was surprised to be greeted by a man who looked… perfectly normal.

“So,” the man (McGucket…?) said, looking him up and down. with a hard to read expression “He really did drag you out here, too?”

“...He?”

“Stanford! I knew Stanford had a brother, heard he’d showed up in town… y’look awful like him, in the face at least, it ain’t hard to put two ‘n two together.”

“Y-yes, I’m Stanley. Pines, I mean Stanley Pines,” he said, hating the tremor in his voice. Now was not the time to appear hesitant — even if he was really just cold.

“Fiddleford Hadron McGucket,” the other man said, and perhaps having noted the same shiver Stan had, open the door wider. “Why don’t y’come inside?”

“I-Inside?” Stan asked, noting the frown on McGucket’s face as he said so. There was some dissonance in the invitation.

“Just because I haven’t been on the best of terms with Stanford doesn’t mean I’m about t'let his relatives freeze on my doorstep,” he replied, and Stan nodded. The answer was good enough for him.

Mostly because he was freezing.

The interior of the cabin, thankfully, didn’t look quite so foreboding as the outside. Unlike Ford’s home, which was a disaster from the exterior and looked like a hurricane had hit inside, this one was boarded up and ominous until you crossed the threshold, into a fairly normal parlor. Whereas his brother’s place had a brand of ominous best described as “a shambles altogether”, McGucket’s looked more… calculated. Designed intentionally, is if to keep people out.

Stanley gulped slightly at the thought that both descriptions might say something about the minds of the men responsible for them.

“I assume he put you up to this?” McGucket said as Stan stamped his boots on the mat in the entryway and rubbed some warmth back into his hands. He looked up, confused.

“He?”

“Your brother, Stanford. I can’t imagine why else you’d even be up here in Oregon, much less at my house. Last he told me, you were off in another part of the country entirely.”

“Oh… um. Sort of,” Stanley said. “He wouldn’t have if I hadn’t pushed him though.”

“Oh?”

“Ford wasn’t the one who called me up here, it was our Ma, she was… worried about him.”

“ _Really?_ ” McGucket said, as he took a seat. There was a note of something in his voice that spoke of the answer being unexpected. “Y’might want to get me up to date on this all then, I think I’ve got the story all wrong.”

“...What did you _think_ I was here for?”

“Thought Stanford might have talked y’into trying to drag me back into his project, having gone to you for help when I left,” he replied. “Clearly that ain’t the case.”

“I’m not trying to help him with his ‘project’ I’m trying to  _ stop  _ it,” Stan said, although he supposed it was total speculation that the “project” was what got Ford a demon in his brain in the first place. He felt like there was enough evidence at this point. Not to mention he wasn’t sure how  _ else  _ the could have happened…

McGucket’s eyes lit up. “In that case, we have a common interest.”

Stan sighed. “At this point I think we _all_ do. He wouldn’t have suggested I find you if he felt otherwise.”

“Did he really now…?” the scientist trailed off.

“You know, I was worried…” Stan said, not knowing quite how to phrase it, “Everyone made it sound like you were… well, that after things had gone south you went a little…”

“Insane?” McGucket asked, and gave a nervous laugh at whatever facial expression Stanley had just made. “Oh, I know what people are saying. Only because they refuse t’ _ listen,  _ bein’ honest. And I may have gone a little… overboard with my warnings at first. When that didn't worked I decided t'just work from here... haven't been out much. Safer that way, not letting anyone out or in, I didn't know who t'trust. Because as I'm sure y'know the town _is_ in real danger. But, no, as far as I — or any man — can know, I’m still sane," he paused, "...Which gives me absolutely no excuse for my _manners_ , would y’like something to drink? Coffee? Tea?”

“No, thank you,” Stanley said quickly, realizing that he was rubbing his hand where it was still a bit pink from his conversation with Bill as he did so.

Not to mention it would only keep them longer — he knew it would be probably be bad to rush into things, but at the same time his previous concerns about Ford being left alone for too long were jumping around, demanding attention in the back of his mind.

“So about — ”

“ — the project?”

“The project,” Stanley said. “And don’t give me all the details now, I'm sure it'll be a long speil of technical talk. I just want to know if you’ll help us.”

“Is it truly an ‘us’ this time?” he replied, almost a bit sadly.

“It was this morning,” Stan said. “Look, I don’t know what happened with you two, but Ford’s doing bad. And I don’t mean doing bad things, I mean  _ bad _ . One of the reasons I was worried about finding _you_ sane is because he’s… not.”

“Y’know I could say the same for his behavior before…” McGucket muttered, and Stanley stood up to gesture more effectively.

“He’s not thinking about this the same way he was when you left! He figured out it was a sham! And his way of trying to deal with it.... look, until I showed up he was trying to put an end to this all by  _ slowly killing himself! _ ”

When he got a stunned silence in response, he met the other man’s gaze. McGucket’s eyes were wide and surprised, with something like regret starting to tug at the edges. 

“I never imagined… is he — ”

“He’s kind of a wreck. Which is why…” Stan hesitated “...I was actually sort of hoping we could talk this over in more detail back at Ford’s place.”

McGucket stiffened.

“I know you probably don’t want to go back there but… I don’t like the thought of leaving him alone for as long as I already have. I had to go out for supplies this morning and now this… I hate to say it’s dangerous for him but…”

“If he’s really gotten as bad as y’say I don’t like to think how he might respond to my coming back,” he said slowly.

“Look, I promise you, the guy has at least _twice_ as much reason to not want to see  _ my  _ face again as he does yours — hell, we hadn’t spoken since the World’s Fair incident — and even though it took some work I managed to crack his shell. Ford is... difficult, but he’s not unreasonable. And I need your help.”

“I don’t like it,” McGucket said firmly, and Stanley felt his heart sinking slightly, but he held up a hand before he could protest and stood up to look him in the eye, still speaking. “I don’t like it at all. But before all this went wrong, Stanford was one of my closest friends. And I know I was about the only one of his. T’think that’s he now… well… I don’t like _that_ either. If things really are the way you say, I’ll be comin’ back with you.”

The smaller man didn’t have time to take a breath after his sentence before Stanley scooped him up into an ecstatic squeeze.

“Mr. McGucket, you’re a lifesaver. Maybe literally.”

“Y’can call me Fiddleford.” He breathed, sounding slightly strangled, and Stan let him go almost immediately, suddenly embarrassed by his own reaction. Fiddleford straightened his glasses, which had been knocked slightly askew by the motion, and once again caught his gaze directly.

“Now. I think that means we have a lab to be gettin’ back to,” he said nervously.

“Yeah,” Stanley said, the nervousness creeping into his own voice. “Yeah it does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter's the one i'm expecting i might get the most questions on, so you get a real author's note this time
> 
> the probably biggest divergence from making canon parallels is mcgucket's memory loss. or rather, in this au, lack of it. what it really came down to was having no good narrative /reason/ for it. in the show's canon, he starts his blind eye project as a result of accidentally looking into the portal. we haven't gotten into the details of the scientists' research in gravity falls yet but i can say this: in the au, there's no parallel to that event. he left the project for slightly different reasons, and as a result is responding in slightly different ways.
> 
> is he paranoid about and putting sigils up to defend against bill? is he reluctant to get back on board with anything related to the project? is he still a bit of a prophet of doom? absolutely. but he's one with his memories intact
> 
> anyways, sorry for the delay on this chapter. it's definitely the one that ended up the most off my update schedule, for a variety of reasons. one of which was moving some of the promised exposition/background in this chapter to an even later one, so my apologies if you were waiting on that specifically... it's. coming. eventually.
> 
> thanks for reading!


	6. Sleep No More!

“Still asleep?” Fiddleford asked from his seat in the study as Stanley returned from checking on his brother. He nodded.

“I don’t know why that thing’s finally deciding to give him a break but I’m glad. I don’t think I’ve caught him resting for much more than a couple hours at a time since getting here. Plus I think it gives us some time to talk.”

“Can’t say for sure that’s how Bill operates but if y’insist on chatting here it’s definitely our best bet.”

“How much _do_ you know about Bill?” Stanley asked him, knowing he was simultaneously touching on a sensitive subject and the reason for their conversation at all. There was no way to do that kindly.

“Not as much as I’d like,” Fiddleford said awkwardly, “Well. I’d rather know nothing at all, but if he’s an unavoidable evil it’d be nice t’feel more prepared. I never actually had much to do with him, just noticed Stanford actin’ more and more off.”

“So you weren’t involved in making the deal?”

“D’you honestly think I’d’ve let him _make_ it if I knew?”

“I dunno,” Stan said, shrugging, “Anybody Ford willingly runs with is bound to have at least a slight tolerance for his particular brand of flawed decision-making.”

“Yourself included?”

“For sixteen years,” Stanley laughed. “God, we got into trouble as kids.”

Fiddleford gave him a small smile. “Now _those_ stories I’d like t’hear sometime.”

“He never tell you any?” Stan said, a faint hint of sadness creeping at the edges of his thoughts. Not that _he’d_  talked much to anybody about his brother for the most recent half of his life either, but it was a reminder of just how estranged they’d been until recently.

“He never talked much about you at all, bein’ honest,” Fiddleford said, his voice softening in response to Stan’s own, he noticed. “I only know the vaguest of details about both of your situation, if that’s any comfort.”

“Nah, it’s okay,” Stanley said, and was a little surprised to realize he meant it. “Ford and I are gonna need to work it out at some point, when he’s feeling more up to it. Looking back, it was all pretty stupid anyways. I… it was my fault. I accidentally messed something big up for him.”

“Can’t be _all_ your fault, if it was a real accident,” Fiddleford said wisely. Stanley just shrugged.

“Still wouldn’t have happened without me there. And maybe Ford wouldn’t be in this whole new mess in the first place.”

“…How big are you talkin’ here?” came the inevitable curious reply, and once again, Stanley was surprised by how much he didn’t mind. Being back around Ford was unearthing emotions he’d buried a long time ago—it was nice to have someone to bounce his thoughts off of that wasn’t his brother, but had enough of a connection to him for it to feel significant.

The other alternative was to keep them bottled up in his brain. He'd had enough of that.

“You remember that World’s Fair in Philadelphia?” he said, and Fiddleford gave a soft whistle. “Yeah,” he sighed, “He… he had a shot at getting on a team for an exhibition. Pretty big deal for a sixteen year-old just starting to look at university, but, you know. Ford’s pretty brilliant. Except... it got us both to bruise each others’ egos, his being a little inflated over the whole thing and my feeling… left in the dust. We both ended up blaming each other for the things we were upset about... had an argument... no one was being careful. I might’ve hit a table and…” he trailed off into silence for a pause, before shaking out of it. “Anyways. Time came and he didn’t have anything to show. He wasn’t real happy about falling flat on his face like that. Then Dad booted _me_ out and it kept us from talking…”

“…Did he really?” Fiddleford asked quietly. “I’m so sorry.”

“S’okay. I managed. Least I had the option of going West—even if it’s harder to strike it rich out here than advertised there’s usually some work around claims. Mining… and… other stuff.”

No need to elaborate beyond that. One brother with an iffy reputation was more than enough. Thankfully, McGucket didn’t pry any further than that into what he’d gotten up to since leaving home, so the legality of it all was a moot point.

“Anyways,” Stanley said , “That’s the gist of the story. Take one genius and add his dumb brother to the mix.”

“Hey now, if it’s any comfort t’you just remember we’re both here because _Stanford’s_ that one that’s been bein’ an idiot,” Fiddleford said, and smiled slightly when Stanley laughed.

“You know what?" he said, "It is. Ma always said his brains couldn’t do him any good if he didn’t manage to take care of himself. And here we are.”

“Plenty of different ways t’be smart,” he replied. “Looks like you haven’t done half bad trying to sort things out here, if I say so myself.”

“Yeah, well we still got a long way to go before they’re fixed,” he sighed. “So about Bill…”

 

***

 

The next hour or so passed swiftly, as they swapped the observations the two of them had at all on Stanford and the demon that was using him.

Stanley’s peek at the journal proved invaluable, as did Fiddleford’s first-hand account of watching Ford slide downward—apparently it had been more progression than instant concern, even before he himself regretted it. Just erratic behavior and some inexplicable evening outings, and not much more. It was only as Fiddleford started to get the idea that the demon’s plans would eventually involve others, courtesy of some chilling offhand comments while possessed, that he’d even entertained the idea of jumping ship on the project.

Together, they puzzled out a surprisingly clear picture of what had happened since about last July. Half a year of questions, finally laid out and organized. But what they didn’t have was any answers. Unfortunately, the thing that seemed to escape them both was any sort of a  _plan_.

It was after they hit that wall several times that Fiddleford offered to get up to go check on Ford again. Stanley told him that really, he’d be happy to keep doing it if the other man wasn’t ready, but McGucket mumbled something that sounded a bit like “No, if he’s awake… think we should talk” and quietly slipped out of the room, leaving Stan alone with his thoughts.

His mind kept slipping back to their earlier conversation, about his and Stanford’s argument all those years ago. Being honest, everything Fiddleford had said left him the most reassured he’d been about the whole thing he’d ever been in his life. He was infinitely glad he'd had the courage to use the guy as a sounding board.

He just wished he knew if Ford would ever feel similarly.

Maybe he would. It was just that Stanley still didn’t have much actual evidence for  _or_ against his brother really hating him. He thought he’d been accumulating some towards the former, but then it turned out to be all twisted and tainted by Bill. Had it not been real? Or had Stanford been treating him the way he felt anyways? Sure, his brother still seemed pretty mad about Stan showing up, but where ego and insecurity and anxiety intersected he just couldn’t tell. Having looked back on their original falling-out, he wondered if he'd ever really been able to.

God, what a mess.

It was as he was once again starting to roll around the thought that of _course_ Ford didn’t want him around, he was the idiot that had ruined everything for him, that his eyes caught a familiar red cover on the desk. His brother’s journal.

He’d been so busy talking with Fiddleford, focusing more on his memories of reading the book than anything, that he hadn’t seen it sitting out on the desk in plain sight. Not even hidden like before. Ford could only have left it there himself, after Stan had been caught with it in the early morning. (This morning! That had been this morning… hell, it felt like a lifetime ago already.) He must have put it there when Stan was out getting supplies, before he’d fallen into the heavy sleep he’d finally been getting for the rest of the day.

 _You never actually finished reading it, you know…_ his brain prodded, and he frowned. He knew what was going on now, did he really need to…?

 _What if he put it out like that because he_ wanted _you to see it?_

Well, there was that idea. Ford usually tucked his personal things away, like an exceedingly paranoid squirrel. It definitely didn’t seem like Bill would have possessed him again just to leave it there.

_You never even read any of the entries after you arrived, if there are any. You want to know what he thinks about you? There’s an idea._

“I’m not gonna do it,” he said aloud to no one in particular, as if it made it more convicting. His eyes glanced away from and back to the journal as he said it though, like they didn’t agree with his tongue or thoughts.

…There was a silk bookmark in the thing now. That hadn’t been there before.

_Screw it._

“Sorry, Ford,” he said, picking it up and cracking it open to the page marked. “Unless, of course, you did this on purpose, in which case I _really_ need to talk to you about the meaning of the word ‘communication’.”

Doubts still floating in the back of his mind, he started to read.

 

***

 

_January 8th, 1892_

_Of all the matters I regret connected to this, the involvement of my brother, Stanley, may run the deepest. His showing up has thrown a tremendous wrench into things (he does appear to have a talent for that)._

_My path was clear to me before he blundered onto my doorstep. But Stanley is nothing if not stubborn and insists upon not only staying, but **caring** for me. Which is obviously deleterious to the entire plan, if not also EXCEEDINGLY ANNOYING. I feel like a child again. When did Ma have the chance to teach him to act like a mother…?_

_He’s impossible. I know I’ve made horrible mistakes, and I was attempting to deal with them. Seeing Stanley again has only reminded me of more._

_But, well…_

_…those are ones I want the chance to fix._

_God knows what he sees that’s worth saving, at first I thought this might only be out of obligation to our mother but he’s made it clear that he actually **cares**. And as much as it pains me to say it_ — _now I care too._

 _Before he showed up, I had my plans_ _to_ _take the horror with me and leave the world the better without perhaps the **both** of us. After all, this damage is of my own folly, and leaving my journal as a warning seemed the only good I could achieve anymore._

_Alas, it never occurred to me that I could be missed._

_If I throw everything away now, will Stanley’s last memory of me be the awful things I’ve said to him? Even if they are, what does it say about **him** that I still feel confident he’d mourn me? And about **me** that I don’t think he has the privilege to feel the same way?_

_I fear his involvement. Bill has made it clear to me that anyone who attempts to stop him will die by his_ — _and I shudder to think of it but perhaps more literally **my**_ — _hand. I swore not to let that happen and accepted my fate. And so I tried to get him to leave here, at first, but perhaps only made a bigger mess of things. Because at the same time, he’s the one who has made me once again want to fight, if for nothing more than a second chance_

_I feel myself growing weaker again, I think bill has by now noticed something is up. That I care again, or something similar. I know it’s selfish not to go through with my original plan, he’s going to do something awful for my rebellion, to try to beat me back again, and already the guilt is overwhelming. But I now have the misfortune (?) of a reason to resist_

_I can’t be the better brother_ — _it seems Stanley got all the skill there_

_but I still want the chance to try to be a good one_

***

 

Stan let the book slip closed in his lap, sitting there in stunned silence and trying to process what he just read.

Stanford cared?

Stanford _cared._

He was fighting now, he was fighting now because he wanted to make things up— _to_ _him_.

Out of everything he could have hoped for.... his brother didn't just want them to stop _arguing_ , which was about the only thing Stanley had dared to wish could happen until this point, he wanted them to _make up._  
  
Ford wanted them to be brothers again.  
  
He wanted to because of _him_.  
  
Every single protective feeling he'd had swell up in the past week seemed to reappear at once and bubble wildly, like a pot that had started to boil and done so again as new ingredients were thrown in—suddenly these weren't just instances of him being sentimental, or him being stupid. They were of him _saving_ his brother as best he could.

And there was actually gratitude in return.  
  
He probably could have sat there, growing giddier as he thought about it (despite their still being far from out of the woods yet...) had Fiddleford not suddenly come back into the room looking a little pale.  
  
...Huh. He'd been gone pretty long, hadn't he?

_Maybe Ford was awake now and they'd talked? But then why did he seem so—_

“He’s not there, Stanley,” Fiddleford said hollowly. 

“What do you mean he’s not there?”

“He’s not where y’left him, and he’s not anywhere else either. I checked the whole place, even the lab.”

“The lab… you mean there’s another room in this house he’s been slipping off to and I didn’t even _know_ about it? No _wonder_ I could never find him…”

“The point is, Stanley, that he hasn’t slipped off there _now_!”

“But where would he even go? It’s still _snowing_ outside, and Ford never went into town even when he was… as normal as he ever gets. Why would he—?” Stanley asked, and both their faces hardened simultaneously.

“Bill,” they said in unison.

“I think we just figured out why he was lettin’ him sleep all day,” Fiddleford said bitterly. “He had something big planned for tonight. Which means he could be _anywhere._ ”

“Well then, we’d better find him,” Stan said, responding to the rising panic of Fiddleford’s voice with his own surprisingly steady one—say what you will about the life he’d had to lead, but he knew how to keep his head in a crisis.

But before he could even so much as continue that train of thought there was a faint tapping at the door.

“...You don’t think…?” 

"Bill couldn't possibly be done with whatever he was using him for, not yet..."  
  
"Maybe if he managed to wrench back control somehow?" Stanley suggested.

That suggestion was enough to send them both leaping for the entryway. Stan motioned for Fiddleford to get behind him and put his fists up, prepared to defend them both in case this was some sort of a trap. Realistically (and he winced at the thought) he knew exactly why Ford had tried to rid his home of anything that could be used as a weapon. But it very possibly left them in a predicament now.

Good thing he still knew how to box.

He opened the door slowly, the eerie creak of its less-than-new hinges serving only to amplify already heightened nerves. The sound of the wind howling outside, once it swung open to the elements, intensified so strongly that they just kept climbing.

But there was no need. The only person standing there in the snow was Ford—and his eyes were dull and pain-clouded, not glinting and yellow.

Stanley knew it probably wasn’t appropriate at the moment, but after what he’d just read he could have hugged him.

“Stanford!” he said quickly, ushering him to move inside and out od the cold. “Jesus _Christ_ , you scared us both. What the hell did you suddenly decide to step out for? Was it—?”

“—We may have a slight problem,” Ford murmured weakly, not following him in at all and swaying slightly as if the words themselves exerted him.

“...A new one?” Stan asked him nervously.

“Yes… well…” Stanford trailed off, and Stanley was almost afraid he wasn’t going to continue. His eyes grew even more unfocused and he tried to finish his sentence in a cascading mess “Sort of...I don’t know… I mean, I can’t recall.... I wasn’t exactly present at the time but....”

“Stanford…” Stan said slowly, trying to bring his brother back to reality as he put a hand on his shoulder. He’d always been hard to reel in from his thoughts, and especially so since their reunion. But Fiddleford tugged on Stan’s sleeve, pointing at something in the process and distracting him from the task. Suddenly, he found himself feeling ill.

He’d been so busy checking his brother’s eyes (if for admittedly good reason) that he’d missed the blossoming red stain developing near the bottom of his ribcage.

“...........It would appear that I’ve been shot,” Ford mumbled weakly. 

He collapsed forwards so quickly that Stanley could barely catch him in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dramatic scientist swoon tally: three
> 
> ford should be proud, he's tied with victor frankenstein


	7. In Blood Stepp'd So Far

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> author's note at the beginning this time! mixing things up!
> 
> i'm doing this to explain a couple things:
> 
> 1) you may notice the chapter count has extended. that's because i split this one into what's getting published here, and another, extra chapter
> 
> 2) i did this because, out of all of them, this chapter probably has the most trigger potential. anyone who doesn't do so well with things like medical procedures, needles, blood, etc be warned -- which is one of the main reasons for the split. that and things were getting long, but i have moved any and all incredibly plot important revelations into what will now be chapter 8, and this one can now, for the more squeamish of readers, be skipped. not that it's (i hope, at least....) devoid of meaningful content, but it has only content that you don't need to understand continuity beyond the rather expected "stanley and fidds do their best to patch ford up"
> 
> thanks for reading!

“Oh God,” Stanley said, turning his brother over in his arms as gently as possible to try to get a good look at his wound. “Oh God oh _God…_ ”

Fiddleford, on the other hand, was remarkably calm given the circumstances. At the very least, he said nothing, just crouching down to where Stan knelt with Stanford’s limp form. He put two fingers to Ford’s wrist and frowned.

“His pulse is weak, meanin’ he’s already lost a lot of blood. Be careful there, y’don’t want to make it any worse.”

Stanley nodded. They _both_ needed to keep their heads. He’d been the calm one just moments earlier, and it wasn’t like he hadn’t seen messier injuries before. Why was he suddenly slipping? Because this past week was finally getting to him? Because this was such a shock?

….Because this was _Ford?_

“I’ve got some things that should help us get him stable,” Fiddleford said, standing up quickly. “Assuming they’re still stashed around here after the past few months.”

“I kinda turned the place upside-down this week,” Stan said, although his heart skipped a beat for a moment when he remembered that “medical supplies” were one of the things he’d been least fruitful in finding. Was it possible...?

“Y’just said you’ve never been down in the lab, that tells me enough. In the meantime—he’s clearly in shock. You know anythin’ about dealing with gunshot wounds?”

“Y-Yeah,” Stanley said slowly, mind flashing back to exactly _why_ —October of 1886, and two fellow miners who decided the best way to settle their problems with each other was a duel. He’d somehow gotten roped into helping the second of the unfortunate loser try to save the man.

The blank look in the duelist’s eyes the next morning, when they both realized they’d failed, hadn’t haunted him this strongly for years.

“Just the basics though,” he decided to add quickly, panicking at the thought of his second experience progressing even remotely similarly.

“Get him to the sofa, pull out whatever blankets y’can find, and for the meantime just try t’keep him warm. I’ll be back.”

With that, he slipped off down the hall. Alone now in the doorway, holding his brother’s body that felt as cold as ice and chilled _him_ even colder, Stan numbly tried to follow the advice.

_Carry. Ford. Sofa. Blankets. Ford. Warm. Ford. Ford. Ford_

_...Get_ ahold _of yourself! You’ve seen worse than this…. you’ve_ dealt _with stuff this bad. Usually you let yourself get completely desensitized to danger, that’s why you’re even alive. What’s different now?_

He knew what was different though.

Even when he was fighting for his _own_ life, it had never felt this much like he was in danger of _losing_ something.

Let that say... whatever it did about what he thought about himself. Maybe Ford wasn’t the only one that needed some persuasion he was worth something. But it was almost unbearable to think about right now. Hell, it _was_ unbearable…

“I was just getting you back…” he whispered softly, cradling Ford as gently as he could to lift his limp form from the floor and hold him close. It hardly took any effort, he noted, feeling sick to his stomach thinking about the fact that his brother was now in a scenario even a healthy man would struggle to fight through, and Ford was so, so far from that. He was so _pale_ …

He shuffled his way to the space that vaguely served as a sitting-room, the whole time his brain repeating a constant mantra of _I’m not gonna lose him, I’m not gonna lose him, I’m not gonna lose him.... not again, I’m not gonna lose him._

It continued as he lay Ford down gently and grabbed the blanket draped across the back of the sofa, tucking it around him as best as someone attempting not to jostle injuries could. After that, though, there didn’t seem to be much to do other than wait for Fiddleford to return, and try to calm his own mind.

 _You gotta clear your head, pal_ , he found himself thinking. _Do it for Ford, at least. He’s gonna need you, you gotta do it for him._

But sitting there, watching the terrifyingly shallow, barely-there rise-and-fall of Stanford’s chest under a blanket he was just about drowning in (even though it wasn’t particularly large) kept shattering any calm he had whenever he glanced his brother’s direction. Absentmindedly, he let his hand slip into Ford’s clammy, loose one, squeezing it tight as if to assure both of them ( _himself, to reassure himself, who was he kidding…_ ) that no one had slipped somewhere the other couldn’t follow just yet. For now, he would comfort himself with the truth that they were still in the same world, even if his brother’s anchor to his had just become painfully tenuous.

He was rubbing the corner of his right eye, which had decided to betray him and get emotional, when Fiddleford re-emerged in the room, carrying a big black (presumably medical) bag in his right hand. To his credit, the man made no comment on Stanley’s apparent tearfulness, perhaps taking tactful note of his attempt to hide any signs of it

“Alright Stanley,” he said, his face the picture of grim determination, “I’m plannin’ on taking the reigns here but I may need you t’assist with certain bits, if y’think you’re up to it.”

“Of course,” he said quickly, knowing that one of the emotions crippling him at the moment was the one of feeling _helpless_ to do anything. Having to help would still be better than this.

Fiddleford nodded. “First I’ll need t’check if it hit anything serious. Crossin’ our fingers, the damage’ll’ve taken a straightforward path, avoidin’ anything particularly difficult. Ribs, intestines, any other organs. A simple surgery could patch that up well enough if he’s lucky. From there we’ll be wanting t’keep the wound aseptic, since infection is half the reason somethin’ like this can become deadly in the first place. And… I’m hopin’ the blood loss isn’t horrifically severe, because the idea of attemptin’ a transfusion scares me. They don’t have t’best success rate, to be frank. If it’s necessary though, an’ you think _you_ can take it, I’d pin you as the better donor.”

Stanley nodded, a slight smile creeping on his face in spite of (perhaps to combat?) the dire circumstances. He wasn’t sure how much of that went through to him, partially out of still feeling numb but partially because it had come off so quick and clipped and _technical_.

“Awful lot of knowledge there. You’re some kinda researcher, a physician too.... where’d Ford even dig you up?”

“Georgia,” Fiddleford said solemnly. “...Not that we met there, y’hear, but... that’d be why I know what to do here. My Pa was a medic at the big hospital in Savannah towards the end of the war.... even just trying to help some folk closer to home, I learned enough about gunshots t’last a good lifetime. Met your brother because… well… after all that and some other things, home t’wasn’t full of the fondest memories. I had my reasons for wantin’ to go t’school up North.”

“I’m sorry,” Stanley said softly.

Fiddleford shrugged. “If what I know buys Stanford the chance he needs here, I’ll be grateful for it.”

The whole time he’d been speaking, he hands were deftly pulling a variety of medical instruments from his bag, laying them out on a clean piece of cloth on the floor. He frowned.

“...Actually, d’you think you could get a pot of water boiling?” he asked.

“Yeah, sure,” Stanley said, rising slowly and letting Ford’s hand drop, “....what for exactly?”

“I’d like to try to sterilize these before attemptin’ any procedures,” Fiddleford said, this time pulling out a wad of gauze, and setting it next to them.

Stan nodded slowly, still not exactly sure of the intent. But if McGucket knew what he was talking about as much as he claimed, he wasn’t going to argue. Not with Ford’s life on the line.

 

***

 

When he returned to announce that the water was ready, he saw that Fiddleford had been working damn quickly. Probably out of necessity, he felt sick to note, but the man had removed all excess layers of clothing—Ford’s coat and waistcoat were lying to the side, and his shirt was carefully unbuttoned as best to see and gingerly prod the damage.

“It’s boiling now,” Stan announced, and Fiddleford whirled around, looking surprised for a moment but then regaining his composure. He seemed like he’d been deep in thought.

“Thank you kindly, Stanley, that’ll be what we need to do next. Good news is, as far as I can tell there’s no significant discharge or other signs somethin’ vital’s been punctured. Looks like he may have dodged a—” Fiddleford stopped himself, cringing, “—aha, it looks like he may have been quite lucky. Relatively speaking. Of course…” he trailed off.

“...Something not so lucky?” Stan asked nervously.

“Not exactly pressin’ I don’t think,” Fiddleford said, “I was just wonderin’ if you knew anything about the rest of the scarrin’ here.”

“Scarring?” Stanley asked slowly, kneeling down to get a look at what he was talking about. Sure enough there were criss-crosses and angry looking splotches scattered across the rest of his brother’s torso too, far removed from the current pressing wound in his side.

“Bill,” he spat. “Bill said something about ‘roughing him up’ I—I am going to _punch_ that bastard, first time I get the chance....”

“Focus, Stanley, _focus._ I shouldn’t’ve brought it up. Let me get these sterilized and I can get started on the real patchin’ up. In the meantime, here,” Fiddleford said, handing him one of the clean cloths from earlier, “Just try to staunch the bleedin’ for now, the more we can keep in him the better the chance he’s got.”

Stanley accepted the handover, and immediately tried to do as he was asked—gently, though. So ridiculously gently. He’d described Ford as seeming “breakable” this week, but hadn’t known just how deep the description could cut him until now. Especially knowing that this was just the worst and newest in a longer line of abuses heaped on him....

Burning rage and panicked worry were surprisingly compatible emotions.

Stan sort of zoned out when Fiddleford returned, knowing if he paid too much attention to the actual surgery being performed to clean Ford's wound it probably would only make him worry more and instead choosing to let melancholy thoughts wander as they wished, but was drawn back into the present when the smaller man said his name.

“Stanley…?” Fiddleford asked, and the tone worried him. He looked somewhat paler, and definitely less confident than earlier. Starting to border on nervous.

“Yeah?” he said, not letting the fact that he’d notice the change in demeanor cause his voice to catch. “What do you need?”

“I… well...” he hesitated, then clenched his one empty fist in resolve. “We’re going to need to try the blood transfusion. I don’t like it, but for him t’even have a chance… Stanford must’ve had a hard time dragging himself back here after he was shot, as far as I can tell that’s when the damage was done. He’s lost too much, and we’re losing _him._ ”

Stanley nodded, not liking what he was hearing but ready to try just about anything if it would save his brother.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s do this.”

It seemed the medical bag Fiddleford had with him was one prepared for the absolute worst scenario, because he didn’t even hesitate pulling out a few more supplies. Stan wondered if keeping something like this in the lab was fairly standard practice, or only standard practice if you worked with Stanford Pines.

...He could honestly see either being likely.

“I’m sure y’ain’t incredibly familiar with the procedure,” Fiddleford said, “seein’ as it’s really only done in the direst of circumstances, but just know I’ll be usin’ this hypodermic here, and I’ve got it all cleaned up and ready to go.”

“...Is there some kinda success rate on this at all?” Stanley asked, extending his arm.

Fiddleford was silent.

“McGucket, what’s the success rate on these things?” he asked, voice rising.

“It’s abysmal, alright! I can’t lie t’you Stanley, I’m sorry. But I _can_ say that without us tryin’, Stanford won’t even live to see the mornin’.”

Stan’s heart stuck in his throat, but he again nodded.

“I can suggest you tryin’ to think about something else while I do the procedure, particularly the times I'm drawin' your own blood, if it’ll help…”

Nodding seemed to be all he was capable anymore. “Just do what you need to.”

It was only moments later, probably, that he was vaguely aware of the feeling of a needle pricking his skin.

If only the distractions he could think of, as it stayed there, starting its attempt to save a life, were any less painful.

 

***

 

_Glass Shard Beach, New Jersey, 1868_

_“Ma, can I ask you a question?” Stanley was asking from his bed. He wiggled his toes impatiently, still mad about being stuck there._

_“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” she replied, an exasperated but definitely still affectionate sigh escaping her lips._

_“ ‘m bored of sleeping, that’s all the doctor lets me do.”_

_“What’s your question, Stanley?_

_“Why’s Ford more sick than I am?”_

_His mother was sighing again, but this time it sounded less like when she thought he was being a “rascal” and more like when something was wrong. He didn’t like those sighs._

_“We don’t know,” she was starting to reply, “We don’t know why both you boys fell sick at the same time, we don’t know how you got scarlet fever in the first place, we don’t know a lot of things.”_

_“We know I’m doin’ better! That’s what the doctor said.”_

_“Yeah,” she was saying back, “we know that.”_

_Stanley was wiggling his toes again. “Can I ask another question?”_

_“Go ahead.”_

_“Why’d the doctor move Ford to another room? I like talkin’ to him. He’s probably getting lonely.”_

_Another sigh. “He’s worried about him keeping you from getting better.”_

_“Since Ford’s not?”_

_“Since Ford’s not.”_

_More wiggling his toes. For longer this time. He had one more question, but he didn’t want to ask this one. Not really that much._

_“...If I’m getting better, and Ford’s not, an’ the doctor put us in different rooms so we don’t get stuck the same, an’ if we got sick at the same time but we’re not gettin’ better at the same time_ _—_ _” he was coughing now._

 _“_ _—_ _You’re not better_ yet, _Stanley, slow down!”_

_“Ma!” he was saying with all the earnesty an 8 year-old could muster. “...Is Ford gonna die?”_

_“Stanley!”_

_He knew that sound in her voice wasn’t her actually being mad at him, he could tell. His Ma sounded different when she was mad. This sounded like she was worried._

_“I jus’ wanna know,” he was saying quietly, with more toe-wiggling. “I wanna tell him good-bye an’ that he still owes me a nickel from the frog race an’ that I hate him.”_

_“...You hate him?”_

_“He didn’t ask me!” Stanley was feeling tears prick the corners of his eyes and he didn’t even care, not like he usually did when he wouldn’t let the other boys see him cry. Not like that at all “He didn’t even ask me if it was okay for him to be_ stupid _like this, an’ now he’s just gonna_ leave _and it’s not_ fair! _”_

_“Stanley,” his Ma was saying, with as much softness as she ever said anything. “Ford is trying his hardest. He doesn’t want to leave you either.”_

_“He’s not trying hard enough,” Stanley was sniffling._

_“He’s trying his_ very _hardest, and do you know how I know?”_

_Stanley was looking up at her with wide and I’m-not-crying-anymore-I-promise eyes._

_“I know because he doesn’t want to be in the other room, where he can’t talk to you, and where he makes you worry about him, either.”_

_Stanley let that thought roll around for a little bit._

_“Yeah but he owes me a nickel,” he eventually decided on saying._

_“Your brother still wants to see you again, even if he owes you a nickel.”_

_“Good,” Stanley was saying. “An’ not just because of the nickel.”_

_“Oh?”_

_“‘Good’ because I wanna see him too.”_

 

***

 

“....And that should be the end of it,” Fiddleford said nervously, jarring Stanley from the memory. He held the now probably-several-times empty hypodermic in his right hand, and was setting it gently on the cloth he’d kept all his other instruments on. Once it lay there, he pulled the blanket he’d set aside to do his surgery back over Stanford, an effort to, it seemed, make him as warm and comfortable as possible despite the circumstances.

“How long until we know if it worked?” he said hoarsely, noting that there was a slim strip of gauze tied around his own arm now

“Well, if he rejects it, we’ll know by morning,” Fiddleford said.

“...That’s a possibility?” Stanley asked, feeling sick.

“Probably the biggest danger.”

“So if he knows what’s good for him and accepts the, you know, _life-giving_ stuff we just stuck in him….”

Fiddleford rolled his eyes, probably his method of reducing the tension he’d been building up throughout the whole procedure at the first chance of even slight levity he got—Stan’s sarcasm. (That was fair. He knew he'd used it as defense from feeling any worse.)

“There’s still the concern for infection, and I’m worried about how weak he was before we even reached this point, bein’ honest,” he said. “I don’t want to make any calls just yet.”

“So we’re keepin’ an eye on him for a while.”

“Probably for the best… maybe we can sleep in shifts.”

“You can take the first one, you’ve more than earned it,” Stanley said..

“Actually I was going to say, seein’ as you were the one that donated your—”

“—Can it and hit the sack, Doc, I’m not about to have another one of you scrawny academics keeling over on me. I feel fine.”

Being completely honest, he knew that aside from some nervousness, Fiddleford probably was too. Today had been long, but they’d both pull through just fine.

The question, that he hated having to ask, was if Ford would be.


	8. Courage to Make Love Known

If patience was a virtue, it was another area of that list where Stan was failing.

Ford’s first unresponsive night, right after the surgery and transfusion, when Stanley sat next to his brother in nervous vigil the entire evening and spent most of it clutching his hand like it could be wrenched away at any second, had been agonizing. The second had been full of tossing and turning as he worried too much to really get any sleep. The third he had started to panic until Fiddleford reassured him that a long convalescence period didn’t necessarily spell negative things, and if they were to dwell on anything it should be the fact there were no signs of infection developing.

But if this was really shaping up to be a fourth night, he was honestly just going to have to deem it “frustrating”.

“Look, I don’t want to be mad at you right now Ford,” Stanley muttered in his brother’s general direction. “But I don’t see why you have to always be so _difficult._ ”

He sighed.

Story of their lives.

“You’re still up?” Fiddleford commented, and Stan whirled around to see him entering the room, a cup of tea in his hands. He sighed.

“Yeah. I know you were gonna take most of tonight but… I dunno, lately I have a hard time sleeping.”

“Hm.”

They both glanced where Ford lay, shared concern communicated, but unspoken.

“...You think there’s any chance he wakes up tonight?” Stan asked.

Fiddleford sipped his cup of tea and frowned, perhaps partially because it was still hot enough to fog up his glasses. “Well, we are startin’ to push the boundaries of how long I’ve seen these things last, and he _seems_ to be recoverin’...” He must’ve noticed Stanley’s face lift, because he shook his head. “Now don’t go gettin’ your hopes up I can’t be makin’ any promises.”

“I know, I know. He’s just _scaring_ me.”

“Fairly certain that’s what Stanford does best,” Fiddleford sighed.

Stan laughed slightly, shaking his head in resigned exasperation. “He couldn’t even make _this_ simple,” he said, sighing.

“T’be fair, he’s still quite weak,” Fiddleford conceded. “That can’t be helpin’ him much.”

“And that’s... still scaring me.”

“Fair as well.”

They sat there a few silent moments, Stan starting to wonder about just giving in and sleeping, before there was a slight stir made by the subject of their discussion.

Stanley leapt forward the minute he noticed it, only to have a restraining hand placed on his chest by Fiddleford. He was slightly surprised by how strong the smaller man was.

“Let him come to in his own time,” he admonished. “He’s had an ordeal.”

“ _I’ve_ had an ordeal…” Stanley muttered, but leaned back all the same. He knew Fiddleford was right.

Ford slowly propped himself up before even opening his eyes, as if he were uncomfortable already. He gave a pained groan—the action clearly still hurt—and let his lids flutter open.

“Take it easy there,” Fiddleford said, pulling up the blanket which had shifted as Ford moved.

“Fidds!” was the first thing he said, sounding a little surprised. “You came?”

It was then that Stan realized the two _still_ hadn’t actually talked with each other for months. He’d gotten so used to Fiddleford being around, the two of them having spent the last several days plotting possible solutions and fretting over his brother together, that he’d grown used to the other man’s presence and hadn’t even considered it. Here was to hoping the awkwardness that might mean dissolved quickly.

“Ah, yes,” Fiddleford said, sounding a bit flustered. Stanley thought he noticed a slight blush creeping across his cheeks. “I mean, your brother… he made it sound like y’might… he said y’were.... well, it turned out to be an awfully good decision.”

Ford cocked his head, seeming confused, and Fiddleford put his hands up.

“I meant since y’clearly needed someone with medical expertise here, that’s what I meant!” he said quickly.

“How are you feeling?” Stan cut in, both with genuine concern and the goal of rescuing Fiddleford from the conversation.

Ford rolled his eyes. “Like someone combined sodium with water just slightly above my liver.”

“...Huh?”

“Like hell, Stanley. I feel like hell,” he replied, starting to feel around for, Stan realized quickly, his glasses.

He handed them to him from the table they’d been resting on since Monday evening. “Heh, sorry. Dumb question. Do you need anything?”

Ford sighed. “Not immediately, I don’t think.”

“You know,” Stanley said slowly, “you seem… better. Not just, you know, ‘no longer bleeding everywhere’ better but…”

“...’Not a raving madman’ better?” Ford said with grim humor. Fiddleford and Stan both winced slightly at the bluntness. But Stanford had pursed his lips into a sardonic line and continued. “Oh, honestly, I know you’ve both thought it. _I’ve_ thought it. But I had a moment to reflect on my sudden clarity of thought earlier and—”

“—‘Earlier’ when?” Stan interjected.

“Well in the brief period between being _shot_ and showing up here I—”

“—Stanford, I want you to think very carefully about what you just said, and understand that saying ‘I had some time to theorize while dragging myself home bleeding to death’ is horrifying."

“But—”

“—It’s horrifying and also one of the most completely ‘you’ things I’ve ever heard you say, and I don’t know how I feel about that.”

Ford opened his mouth and words failed to escape for a moment. “Well,” he finally said when he’d gathered himself a bit. “In any case I think my current presence of mind is nonetheless a product of my injury, which would appear to be decidedly problematic for Bill.”

“ _Problematic?_ Ford, he’s the one that got you _shot_.”

“I am almost positive that was accidental.”

“You have _got_ to be kidding me…”

“I mean it!” Ford said, raising himself slightly from his propped up position. Or rather, trying to. Fiddleford and Stan both reached out to restrain him but there was no need—he collapsed backwards swiftly, looking lightheaded.  
  
“Take it _slowly,_ ” Fiddleford warned. “Stanley, don’t antagonized him. And Stanford, try not to be quite so…”

“...himself?”

“Well…”

Ford glowered momentarily but the prospect of rescuing his hypothesis seemed to entice him more than protesting.

“The best explanation I have is—you’re both aware that Bill’s possession exacts a physical toll, yes? I think my current state has him worried about the effect of that.”

Stan’s eyes widened “So he can’t possess you right now because it’s too risky?”

“Shhhh shh shhh,” Ford frantically hushed as if the walls themselves could hear them. “It’s just a theory. All I know is that _I_ was the more likely of us to do a shoddy job getting me home after I incurred the injury yesterday evening, so I can’t imagine why other than being forced to he exited my body.”

Stanley and Fiddleford exchanged nervous glances.

“What _now_?” Ford muttered, sounding exasperated.

“Ford… you weren’t um. You weren’t shot yesterday.”

“What?”

“You’ve been unconscious for almost three whole days,” Fiddleford said as gently as possible, placing a steadying hand on Ford’s shoulder. “Y’showed up bleeding on the doorstep what was, including this evenin', four nights ago.”

Ford suddenly looked even paler than he had in the sickly sheen of slow recovery. As he noticed his brother start shaking, Stan worried that they might have delivered the news too quickly.

“I-I...” he stammered, a slight tremor emerging in his hands, “...how close did I come to…?”

“Dangerously,” Fiddleford said, in that same comforting tone of voice as before, “We were forced to perform a transfusion the first night you’d lost so much. Y’can thank your brother for some of what’s runnin’ through your veins now.”

The sort-of-bravado Ford had awoken with was all but gone now. He looked like he’d shrunk back into the blanket surrounding him, and his eyes were practically stuck open in shock.

“ _Now_ do you need something?” Stanley asked carefully, unsure how to snap his brother out of it.

“I can answer that one,” Fiddleford said. “It’d be good for him t’have somethin’ to drink. With a bit more of a kick than water, I’d imagine.”

“...Is it really smart to give him—”

“—I’ll be back in a moment. Sit tight.”

Stanford had nodded very slowly at Fiddleford’s first statement but by the time he’d left the room had once again fallen completely still and silent. His expression was so shocked and nervous and vulnerable that Stan hesitated to even look him in the eyes.

“Stanley,” he finally said after a few moments. “If you hadn’t…”

“If this is about the blood thing, don’t worry. Heh, I guess I had some extra.”

“No!” Ford said quickly, putting a hand to his head at the rush. “I meant… if Ma hadn’t… if you hadn’t got sent up here… I’d have… I-I would currently be…”

_Oh._

If Stan hadn't been here in Oregon, Ford would be dead.

“Well,” he said awkwardly, unsure how to respond to that, “...I’m glad to hear you finally agree that plans involving that outcome are bad ones.”

Ford murmured something so quietly he practically missed it, but he was a little scared that the words he’d heard were “I’m still not so sure.”

“Hey, hey hey,” he admonished, folding Ford’s bandaged hands into his own. “The important thing is that that _didn’t_ happen, okay? And I’m not leaving you anytime soon, so it doesn’t have to.”

His brother just stared off into the distance for a few moments. “...This could be all over,” Ford said softly.

“Yeah…” Stanley hesitated, knowing that he couldn’t just force that kind of talk out of his brother. “Yeah, it _could_ , but do you think any of us would be happy with that ending?”

Ford was silent a moment longer, before doing about the last thing Stan expected of him.

He started crying.

It wasn't exactly sudden—more like he screwed his face up fighting his emotions, and released it all at once when he just couldn’t do it anymore—but either way there were tears streaming down Ford’s cheeks and Stanley had no idea how to respond.

“Hey…. shhhhh…. hey, Sixer… it’s okay,” he kept repeating as he pulled Ford, who was shaking with the effort, into an awkward attempt at a comforting embrace, wrapping his arms around his brother as best he could and letting him cry into his shoulder. “It’s okay Ford, it’s….. shhhhhh, _shhhh_ ….. just... calm down.”

“W-We’re tangled in the middle of... _this_ ,” Ford choked “...and you’re s-still going on about happy endings.”

“Heh. No reason not to, the way I try to see it.”

“Mom read you too many fairy stories growing up.”

“You listened to her too.”

Ford pulled away slightly, wiping his eyes with the back of one of his sleeves. “I just liked the dragons.”

“I’m serious, Sixer,” Stan said, gripping his shoulders sincerely. “I know I can’t just rearrange your brain, but you don’t have to think like that anymore.”

Maybe it was the tearstains, or his drawing back into the blanket again, and general vulnerability, but Ford looked about two decades younger than his 32 years for a flitting second and Stan felt his heart seize up at the sight.

“I don’t want to,” Ford said softly. “I don’t want survival to feel like… like I’m prolonging this, or being selfish or… or… who knows what, but I just can’t see an end to this where it _isn’t_.”

“That’s Bill talking,” Stan said, putting a hand under Ford’s chin so that he’d look him in the eyes. “Okay? That’s what he wants you to think, that you don’t have a way out, so that you keep playing into his trap. But you know what? Me and Fiddleford, we’ve been coming up with some ideas these past few days. And if Bill really _can’t_ possess you right now, you can weigh in too. We’re gonna do this. Or at the very least, we’re gonna try our damndest. And… look, no matter what, even if it fails—you’re still allowed to think you have a chance.”

He wasn’t sure if he’d said the exact right or wrong thing for a good moment, because Ford started crying again and fell into the same shaky embrace as before. But then he gave another sound, muffled from speaking into Stan’s shoulder.

“Thank you.”

They sat like that for a while, Stan just rubbing comforting circles into his twin’s back as Ford let every single one of his bottled-up emotions finally spill out.

It was surprisingly peaceful.  
  


***

 

GRAVITY FALLS GOSSIPER                                                                                                                                                                                         January 12th, 1892

 

_A DISTURBANCE IN THE NIGHT_

_article by Toby Determined_

A local farmer [here unnamed by request] reports that sometime yesterday evening, there was a disturbance on the outskirts of town. He states that, suspicious due to previous animal theft, he headed out after hearing a disturbance in the goat pasture.

“Somethin’ was out there all right,” he says now. “Still don’t know if it was man or beast, seein’ as we got plenty of critters out here that don’t act like they ought to. I shouted a few to times to try to discourage a person intrudin’, then fired a few warning shots to scare it away when I didn’t get a response.

Curiously, though the figure never cried out, on investigation the blood staining the snow suggests one of them may have hit its mark. Last night’s swift snowfall prevented further tracking and the culprit remains a mystery. Locals are warned that an injured wild animal OR criminal has the potential to be dangerous.

The farmer’s only comment: “Hope this means whatever it is _stops taking my goats_.”

  


***

 

By the time Fiddleford had re-entered the room, Ford was rubbing his glasses—which had gotten all smudged—on his blanket in an attempt to once again appear composed.

“Your idea of something with ‘kick’ is _tea_?” Stanley laughed, looking at what he carried in with him. He’d… well. Maybe it came from running in different social circles than his brother’s, but needless to say he’d been expecting something different.

“The only reason it isn’t anything more than that is because it’s this man’s life mission to keep me out of the coffee,” Ford complained, accepting the cup all the same.

“I’m surprised you didn’t _bleed_ it,” Fiddleford muttered.

“Maybe he’s going through a withdrawal,” Stanley said, and his brother sighed.

“This. This is exactly why I never wanted the two of you in a room together.”

“Stanford, buddy, we are literally _both_ here to be critical of your life choices.”

“And y’better be grateful for it, too.”

Ford just moaned, setting the cup of tea on the side table and putting his face in his hand. “What did I do to deserve this?”

It was probably rhetorical. It definitely had two interpretations. And they both responded to it the same way.

 _“A lot of things._ ”


	9. All Our Yesterdays Have Lighted Fools

Stanley had hoped that running by him some of their ideas from the past few days would do something to lift Ford’s spirits, but on the contrary, the more plans they mentioned, the more glum he seemed to look. He wanted to ask him what was on his mind, but knew it would probably be fruitless—at best, Ford would just clam up again and retreat back into his own head.

It seemed like they’d made progress, but _whatever_ amount of time he spent there, it was still a very dark place.

“And so were thinking, maybe,” he started, continuing his explanation in the hopes that an idea would be the thing to light a spark that might pull his brother from his melancholy, “if we were able to—”

“—It won’t work,” Ford sighed, wincing a little bit as another pang from his injury raced through his body. Stan and Fiddleford exchanged nervous glances.

“You’ve said that about _everything_ ,” Stan said.

“That’s because none of them will! I’m not just being pessimistic, Stanley, I’ve tried half this myself!”

“And y’don’t think it would be any different, having two others t’help make it work?” Fiddleford asked.

“I know it won’t,” Ford sighed again.

“Now are y’being honest with us here, or just self-defeating again?”

“As honest as I know,” Ford said solemnly. “Either they won’t work, or I’m in no state to try them anymore. I suppose if all else fails we could try one of the latter but--”

“--alright, so don’t ask Ford for his own suggestions, or he’ll try to martyr himself again. But hey, at least you’re holding back a _little_ now.”

“I mean it, Stanley, if it really does turn out to be our only option, the risk is--”

“--I am willing to gamble for a lot of things, Ford, but your _life_ isn’t one of them. If I have to--”

“--Stop!” Fiddleford said, in frustration. “No one is gamblin’ or sacrificin’ anything, y’hear me? Both of you, you’re _both_ of you completely ridiculous.”

Stan and Ford exchanged somewhat sheepish glances with each other, Stanley taking a seat again after rising up out of it to reprimand his brother and Ford pulling his hands from the air to rest them on his blankets again.

“I live in sympathy for your poor Ma,” Fiddleford added, shaking his head. “Now, if you’re done squabblin’ in misguided defense of one another, I’ve got my own suggestion.”

There was anticipatory silence from the twins.

“Ford,” he continued, “I know y’probably don’t want to talk about it, so I apologize, but it’d help us out to know how exactly you got in contact with Bill in the first place. Stanley and I don’t know anythin’ about that, and he ripped your journal entries on the subject out and into Lord knows where.” He rested a hand gently on Stanford’s shoulder. “Y’think you’re up to that?”

Ford’s eyes dropped as he started awkwardly picking at the blankets they’d piled on him. The look on his face was enough to make Stanley’s stomach churn, once again vividly reminded that they weren’t just fighting against an ambiguous malevolent force -- they were fighting Ford’s living, months-long nightmare.

“I can tell you that,” he said quietly.

“Y’sure you don’t need anything first? Y’ve barely eaten since comin’ to, not to mention--”

“--I think it would be best to get it over with,” Ford said, gritting his teeth, and wincing again. “It all started in June, I believe.”

“ _June?”_

“Stanley, we’re not going to get through this if you constantly interrupt me!” Ford said, sounding frustrated. He was probably the only person Stan knew that could get uptight enough about an interjection in his bound-to-be-horrifying story to sit straight up in annoyance while still nursing a wound. He and Fiddleford must have agreed, because they both extended their arms to push him back against the chair again.

“In any case,” Ford said, restarting his story with only a slight look of indignance at the action, “that was when I stumbled across the cave with the summoning instructions in it.”

“Wait, instructions?” Stanley said, at the same time Fiddleford asked “ _Summoning?_ ”

“Yes, well,” he said, not even angry about them interjecting this time. Instead, Ford’s face just looked flushed with -- was that actual _shame?_

“My decisions in regard to the inscription may be questionable in retrospect,” Ford said defensively, “but in fairness you both have the gift of hindsight here, and at the time it--”

“Christ, Ford, when Bill told me you were ‘dabbling in the occult’ I thought he meant maybe you stumbled on something cursed and this was all a horrible mistake!”

“It was still a mistake,” he replied softly, but refused to look either of them in the eye.

“Well of course it was but… _Jesus Christ._ ”

“Rather the opposite, I reckon,” Fiddleford said with grim humor.

“Would you both like me to provide you with running commentary on some of your _own_ biggest failures? Because I’ve got the material,” Ford said with crossed arms.

“Calm down, Stanford, the news is just a little…”

“Suprising.”

“That exactly, thank you Stanley. We don't mean to attack y'over it though, what's done is done. You can go ahead.”

It was with fewer interruptions, largely in an effort to reassure Ford they were listening, that he told the fuller story -- of coming across the cave while exploring, putting together scraps and pieces of the legend surrounding the incantation, following the instructions. He paused awkwardly shortly after, as if hesitating on something, but continued into talking about how his partnership with Bill had originally seemed to be a simple, reasonable one, so Stanley just chalked it up to being embarrassed by the whole situation.

“I really did think… for a time…” Ford said as he concluded, “that Bill was benevolent. Or at least benign. It was completely foolish of me and I can’t express my regrets enough, but I want you to know… I-I don’t want you thinking...”

“Shhh, of course not, Sixer. I read your journal, remember? You seemed confused enough about the whole thing to me. That and, well, I’d believe you anyways.”

“And…?” Ford said hesitantly, turning his gaze to Fiddleford

“Y’all want _my_ thoughts on all this?” he replied, spreading his hands out in front of him as if about to launch into something long-winded. “I think you were a dang-blasted idiot, Stanford, and the fact that you kept as much hidden from me, even when we were workin’ together, that I’m just learnin’ some of the details now… well, it says somethin’, that’s for sure.”

Ford winced, and this time Stanley was pretty sure it wasn’t from his wound. But Fiddleford wasn’t done yet, and for the next bit he softly moved to grab Ford’s hand reassuringly.

“And all that bein’ said, you’ve still been a true enough friend to me that knowin’ you at least never _meant_ any harm by it is quite the relief.”

“You mean…?”

“The thing that had me hurt most was not knowin’ if all this was your _own_ doin’, Ford. You were so secretive about Bill that I just had t’wonder if I hadn’t been completely wrong about you. Even when I learned scraps of the truth, t'wasn't enough to convince me you weren't corrupted, or in league with the thing. Hence my leavin’ when I did. But it’s more than clear to me now that helpin’ you is just doin’ what I can for a friend in a horrible circumstance -- not hurtin’ the world on the account of someone who’d see it burn. And so I don’t regret comin’ back. If anything, I wish I’d known what you were goin’ through sooner.”

“The secrets were… ill-advised. I should’ve thought…” Ford trailed off, looking frustrated, and the other two men let him collect himself and finish. “I should’ve thought to question why Bill didn’t want anyone else knowing about him. He was the reason I never said anything, the reason…”

This time, he didn’t finish.

“He was trying to cut you off, Ford,” Stanley said grimly. “I mean look at us now! Now we’re a threat to him. When he had you all alone though, and believing that was for the best…”

More words left unspoken, but deeply processed by everyone present. In fact, Stan felt a little sick, even being the one who’d said them. Ford may have been the family genius, but he’d _never_ read people well. Or at least as in this case, their intentions. He paired a desperate need for approval with a sometimes shockingly naïve approach towards interaction, and those two things together usually spelled disaster. This was the kind of thing he should have _protected_ him from.

Sure, Ford was sitting there kicking himself for being too curious, or believing a lie, or some combination of both, and sure, Stanley was under no obligation to keep his brother from harm -- especially with the kinds of terms they’d been on. But at the same time, he knew his perspective could help Ford out there. And he wished he’d been around to offer it -- along with his defensive instincts -- a lot sooner.

“He’s messed with my head enough I don’t even know if I think we _pose_ a threat,” Ford said.

“Then take _my_ word we do,” Stan said to him. “Okay?”

His brother nodded.

From there, the three of them really dove into it, proposing another exploration of the cave where Ford had found the original inscription. While the person in question, and the only one who knew where it was located, was still bed-bound and hardly in shape to travel, Ford was able to sketch them a rough, surprisingly detailed map of the surrounding terrain, and Fiddleford knew the area well-enough from some other research excursions to think he could get them where they needed to go. It was decided they’d head out the next day, since going out in the snow at night didn’t seem advisable.

“You sure you’ll be alright here on your own?” Stanley said to his brother, still not a fan of that part of the plan.

“I managed for several months,” Ford said stiffly.

“‘Managed’ is generous, Sixer…” Stan said, rolling his eyes.

“You shouldn’t be gone more than a few hours, anyways. I’ll be fine.”  
  
Stan agreed with him, if only because they all knew there wasn’t much they could do to change the necessity of it in their circumstances. But even as they settled in for what was the most peaceful evening they’d spent since he came to Oregon -- with him actually cooking up a legitimate meal for everyone, and Ford not doing anything more distressing than saying he couldn’t stomach much of it before picking up a book -- he still didn’t like it.


	10. That Summons Thee to Heaven or Hell

Right now was one of those moments where Stanley kind of wished he knew how to whistle. Really whistle, not just the basics. It wasn’t a skill he found himself desperately wishing for  _ frequently _ , but he’d never learned anything beyond a sort of screeching noise -- and when you felt confident and on top of something, the whistling was supposed to be more melodic.

As it was, he’d just have to keep giddily punching Fiddleford in the arm.

When they’d said they were heading up to the cave Ford had found the original inscription in, he’d been hoping for a clue. The next piece in the puzzle, something to help them out a little -- maybe just something to give Ford in particular some  _ hope _ . 

What he was staring at was better than that.

They’d found the original inscription, of course, the one that -- if the vague instructions surrounding the ominous carvings were anything to go by meant anything -- Ford must have read and started this whole mess in the first place. Of course, said carvings were deeply unsettling to the two men looking at them now, even without knowledge of the horror they’d wrought. Stan still felt vaguely like they were boring into his back the minute he’d turned away from them. 

It made him wonder what had possessed Ford to read them in the first place.

….Then it made him decide that was bad word choice.

But the unnerving original inscription wasn’t the only thing their lanterns had shed light on, and Stanley could feel his spirits rising every moment his eyes lingered on the second.

“An exorcism,” he said aloud, as if Fiddleford didn’t probably know one better than him. “These are… these look like the instructions for an  _ exorcism _ .

“They… they certainly seem t’be,” the other man said, holding up his lantern higher, hushed.

It struck him as only slightly odd that Ford hadn’t mentioned them himself, as they seemed the obvious solution to the predicament, but... well, it was always possible he’d missed them somehow, right? The second set of instructions was much more tucked away, they’d only caught it in the stray light of their lanterns combined. Maybe, if he’d been in here alone, Ford could have overlooked the detail…

_ Yeah, except he’s about twelve times more thorough than you are,  _ he thought momentarily, before brushing it aside. He was letting his brother’s negativity get to him, wasn’t he?

“You were on the right track, asking Ford about this!” he said, grinning at Fiddleford, who was now rubbing his shoulder a little indignantly.

“Yes, well,” Fiddleford replied, “Let’s hope that’s the case.”

Stan frowned. “What, you too?”

“Hm?”

“With the defeatist attitude and everything, I thought we were the ones trying to talk my brother  _ out  _ of thinkin’ that way…”

McGucket sighed. “Believe me, Stanley, I’d like t’be hopeful. I just can’t imagine Ford havin’  _ missed  _ something like this. Not without reason.”

“Bill destroyed his notes, didn’t he? Before he warded the journal? Maybe it’s something to do with that. If he never came back here to copy it down again…”

“I don’t know, I just got a funny feelin’ about all this. By all means let’s copy it ourselves, but I can’t help thinkin’ it’s not the answer to our prayers we’re needin’."

"Yeah, yeah. Let's not knock it 'til we try it."

He was impatient the whole while the scientist copied, holding his lantern out in the gloom of the cave to give him a better view of the ancient writing. They had to get going -- if this really  _would_ fix Ford, well... he didn't want to waste a minute. Not while things could still go wrong.

"There," McGucket finally said, scribbling down the last of the full exorcism incantation in the journal they’d brought along in case they found something. He let it close with a dull snap. "I can tell you're wantin' to be gettin' back. We can head out... whatever good it does."

"It means we can get this done and over with!" Stanley said adamantly.

Another sigh. "Stanley,  _ I’d _ like to think we’re safe as much as anyone could…”

“Fiddleford,” Stanley asked, his curiosity finally getting the better of him. It was something he’d been dying to ask the man ever since he’d heard the story of his departure, but had worried was too sensitive a subject. Now, however, his questions were getting revived.  “You keep saying things like ‘the whole town is in danger’, acting like this problem is… pretty big. But it’s not  _ that  _ big, is it? I mean, I’m not happy about Ford being in trouble, but… Ford’s really the only one in trouble, right? Maybe us if we keep helping him, but--”

McGucket lowered his eyes, taking a deep breath. “No, Stanley it’s much bigger than that.”

“What?”

“I forgot you said y’hadn’t been to the lab,” he said. 

Stan waited for him to finish, but Fiddleford only fell silent for a pause.

“Well,” he ultimately said, falsely brightly, “I’m sure you’re wantin’ to get back to Stanford as much as I am, if not more so. Probably need to re-dress his wound at this point, an’--”

“--What’s in the lab?”

“It’s nothin’, I’m sure!” he said. “I told you, I overreacted to all this. If we just get this back to Ford real quick and you’re right about it workin’--”

“--Fiddleford, what’s in the lab?”

There was a heavy sigh from the other man. “Even I don’t know the details. All I’m aware of is that Bill’s plannin’ somethin’ bigger than just terrorizin’ Stanford the way he has been.”

“...Bigger? Bigger how?”

Fiddleford sighed again. “The only thing _I_ can tell you is that right now, he’s restricted. Him bein’ confined to Stanford’s form isn’t what he wants -- you saw plain enough why, if Ford’s theory about his injury keepin’ Bill out is correct. From what I understood, he’s lookin’ to create a way to manifest on his own. Some kind of physical presence. And while I don’t know  _ what  _ he is well enough t’fear that properly, I know it can’t be good. For all we know, he’s got powers that’ll bring about massive destruction... horror... even the end times!”

Stan’s mind flashed back to his single conversation with the demon, Bill’s insistence that Ford -- and by association in helping him, Stanley -- was serving as an accomplice of sorts suddenly ringing in his ears. That wasn’t something someone without plans said. Hell, why hadn’t he dwelled on just how scary that was  _ before  _ now?

Well -- because he was too worried about Ford.

Which was _exactly_ how Bill had read him.

Goddamit.

“And that’s why…” he trailed off.

“...that’s why Ford’s gone full-on martyr since figurin’ out the deception.”

Stan felt vaguely like he’d just received a punch to the gut. Being fair, he’d really probably known this. Known enough of it, at least. The clues were there. But he’d been so busy trying to tend to his brother’s damage -- mental  _ and  _ physical -- that he hadn’t put enough thought into why it existed in the first place.

“God, and here I was thinking that thing was mostly raking him across the coals for kicks,” he said bitterly.

“T’be fair, I wouldn’t put that past Bill either,” Fiddleford said. “But no, I’m quite certain he’s got more in mind than he’s been lettin’ on.”

“I’ve been so  _ stupid _ _!_ ” Stanley said suddenly, feeling anger and some kind of shame bubble up inside of him as he spoke. “This whole time, tellin’ Ford all we had to do was patch him up, stay positive… there are layers to this I never even  _ touched _ . I just wanted to help him because he was hurtin’ but for all I know my attitude towards all this has made him--”

“--Now listen here!” Fiddleford said sharply, catching Stanley’s hand in his own. He’d been about to punch the cave wall in frustration. “Don’t you go thinkin’ your contributions amount to none just because you were focused on one part of the problem. Fact is, that part needed a mountain of help. You’ve gone about this exactly the way you needed to, and you’re brother’s still here because of it. Heck, if you’d taken the big picture approach you might’ve ended up just like him, thinking his life wasn’t worth the possible cost,” here he paused, voice lowering and looking down at the ground slightly. “Or like me… leavin’ him in this awful situation himself. You forgin’ on stubbornly ahead is the perspective we were missin’.”

“Heh. Guess we all made some mistakes,” Stan said weakly.

“Well so long as we’re compensatin’ for each other’s,” Fiddleford said. “Which I suppose means I should be takin’ some more stock in your optimism than I have been. Let’s get back to the house and see if this bit of writing’ll work the miracles you’re hopin’ it might.”

“First thing  _ I  _ want to do is to get a look at this lab that has you so spooked. I don’t know if it’s the kind of thing you can fix by takin’ a sledgehammer to, but I’m ready to try.”

“We seem t’have swapped priorities,” Fiddleford laughed.

“Well, you know,” Stan said. “Compensating. Or something like that.”

“Complimenting. Let’s try sayin’ complimenting.”

“We get out of this mess alive,” Stan said, thiking over what they’d just discussed about strengths and perspectives, “And I think we’d all make a pretty good team.”

Fiddleford smiled. “I’m inclined t’agree.”   
  


* * *

 

“Hey Stanford! We got something we want to run by you!” Stan yelled as he crossed the threshold into his brother’s home.

There was no response.

“Stanford?” He called again, as Fiddleford chimed in with a “Ford, y’alright?”

A cursory search of the area revealed him to be missing -- again -- and Stan hated that his first thought was  _ There’s  _ no way  _ this can be as bad as the last time this happened. _

“You think Bill got the chance to take control of him again?” he asked.

“As much as I don’t like the suspicion, I doubt he’d do somethin’ else to worry us otherwise,” Fiddleford replied nervously.

“You don’t think he headed  _ out  _ again, did he?” Stan said.

“No, he’s still too fragile to try that -- and Bill knows it,” Fiddleford muttered. “I’ve got a feelin’ both of the goals we talked about are going to get accomplished at once.”

“You don’t mean…?”

“He’s got to be in the lab.”

Stanley gave him an uneasy look. “So I take it that means we’re  _ going _ to the lab. I’d say to arm yourself, but…”

“Ford had to get rid of all the  _ kitchen utensils _ , there’s nothin’ here!”

“Alright, well there’s still two of us and one of him -- badly injured, too. Keep your grip on that journal and we’re going in.”

His companion gulped.

“Point the way, Fiddlesticks,” Stanley urged. He didn’t like this any more than McGucket, but he was raring not to wait another minute.

Fiddleford took his arm, nervously guiding him from where they’d stood in the parlor to the study Stanley had caught Ford in what seemed like  _ years  _ ago now. Before he’d known about any of this. 

“Give me a moment to try to recall the position of the key,” he said, and Stanley squinted in confusion.

“The mechanism in is disguised,” Fiddleford explained apologetically. “He can’t have changed it, it was too complicated, but…” he trailed off, approaching one of the bookshelves. Before Stan could even ask what he was doing, he stood on tiptoes to pull a book out half-way.

There was a slight creaking sound, and the entire shelf pushed back, revealing a corridor downwards behind it.

“Holy hell,” Stanley breathed. “No wonder I never found it. That makes two points I owe you.”

“I’d’ve forgotten the key myself if it weren’t for Ford thinkin’ himself clever,” Fiddleford admitted. “As it was, it wasn’t too hard to recall.”

“Oh?”

“The book. It’s ‘Journey T’the Center of the Earth’. Now… after you?”  
  
As Stan peered into the darkness, stepping down and half-afraid of what they were going to find down the ominous steps, he decided that was oddly fitting. 

And didn’t like the sound of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let the final speculation begin


	11. Sweet Oblivious Antidote

_MACBETH:_

_Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd,_

_Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,_

_Raze out the written troubles of the brain,_

_And with some sweet oblivious antidote_

_Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of the perilous stuff_

_Which weighs upon the heart?_

 

 

**_-Macbeth, Act V, Scene III_ **

 

* * *

 

 

The lower the two men descended into the lab, the more oppressive the air around them felt. Stanley wasn’t sure if it was all his nerves, or a genuine chill setting in as they crept further underground. Probably a combination of both.

Probably also why the descent thus far seemed to be taking forever. He was about to whisper “How far does this thing go?” to McGucket when they reached the bottom, the clacking of their shoes on stone steps growing muffled as they hit solid dirt.

“Stanford?” he called out cautiously instead. Fiddleford clamped a hand over his mouth immediately.

“Shhhhh!” he admonished. “What’re you--”

“--I was thinking if we could draw him out…”

“Listen, Stanley. I’ve got the good fortune of not mistrustin’ your intentions but there’s one thing you’ve got to remember down here and it’s that that _thing_ we’re lookin’ for ain’t your brother. Not right now.”

“You really think Bill’s back then?”

“Why else would he--”

A familiar, disconcerting cackle rang throughout the chamber.

“Oh, do continue your conversation,” came the call immediately afterwards. “I’d hate to interrupt something so _entertaining_. But I hope you don’t mind if I hit the lights?”

At that, there was a blaze of color to the room. Stanley just about dropped the lantern he was carrying in surprise at the flash.

The lab proved to be quite cavernous, and as a result still rather dimly lit, but the strategically placed electric lighting scattered throughout illuminated more of the room than Stan had even realized was there. A massive metal structure in the center of the cavern stretched upwards, and on the first level of scaffolding next to it…

“Carbon arc lighting!” Bill-in-Ford’s-body said gleefully, tapping the base of the bulb nearest him with a grin as he took his hand off the lever that had switched the array on in the first place. “You know, it’s crazy how big electricity’s going to get in the future. Might even call it ‘shocking’!”

At that, he took a leap to the floor, crumpling in a slight heap before righting himself and moving towards Stan and McGucket. It was only as he started to have real motion that Stan noticed the painful staggering of his movements, clearly still hindered by Ford’s injury. He felt his fists clench in anger at the limping gait, something about this latest abuse of his brother hurting even more than usual. Bill was wearing him raw when what he still needed most was time to recover.

“And Fiddleford!” Bill was continuing. “Good to see you again, buddy, I thought you’d _bailed_ \-- or perhaps a little bit worse.”

Stanley could feel the man in question grip his shoulder with nervousness at being directly addressed by the monster that had sent him packing months ago. Though Stan had suffered his own terrifying conversation with the demon, he knew the other two men in the room -- because Ford was still there, he refused to let himself think for a moment that his brother was too far gone -- had been through a special kind of hell at Bill’s hand. Which meant it was the time for _him_ to take action.

“Get out of my brother, you _bastard_ ,” he growled, stepping forward towards the stumbling figure.

“What, you think you can make me?”

“Actually,” Stan said, returning the smirk the demon had just given him, “I think we can.” He held up the journal. “These? They’re exorcism instructions.”

Yellow-tinged eyes widened for a moment and Stanley thought for the slimmest of seconds that maybe just maybe, he’d been right all along about finding what they needed.

Then Bill started laughing.

“Oh this is _gold_ ,” he said, between spurts of laughter. “You just couldn’t bring yourself to tell them, huh Sixer? I think I’m gonna let you explain this one, the expressions on everyone’s faces will be _priceless._ Why don’t you tell him? Tell your brother why YOU. ARE. _MINEEEE._ ”

Bill’s last word was a roar from a tired throat and suddenly Ford’s body was slumping onto the ground, clutching his wounded side and gasping for breath. He looked up with his own eyes, that seemed to be swimming with the beginnings of tears. Stan’s heart caught in his throat and he found himself, despite the horrible irony in it, hoping desperately that they were only a product of physical pain.

“I’m sorry, Stanley,” Ford babbled from where he fell, “I’m… I’m sorry, Fiddleford and I’m so, _so_ sorry Stanley, I never meant for… for this… I almost hoped you wouldn’t find the inscription in the first place…”

“Stanford, what are you talking about?” Stan asked with a sinking feeling. He’d rushed over to where his brother now sat on the floor and gently laid a hand on his shoulder. Underneath what was intended to be a gesture of comfort, Ford was trembling.

He pushed Stan’s hand away.

“Th-the exorcism will work,” he said. “It’ll rip Bill’s life force from my body and once again leave him formless.”

“But that’s great! We can--”

“--and I’ll go with him,” he murmured.

“What?!”

“The deal I made _bound_ us, Stanley. It was a blood pact, and over the months that Bill’s been...” Ford shuddered “... _using_ my body, it’s only grown stronger due to the ritual sacrifices--”

“--Ritual _what?_ ”

“I didn’t realize he was performing them!” Ford said frantically, still babbling, “He always did them when possessing me and it took me months to even notice he was doing that. Fortunately it’s only been local… farm animals… who’ve suffered for it but…”

“Stanford, slow down, you’re not making any sense!”

His brother gave another violent shudder on the floor, falling completely before raising himself back up on his hands. A violent hacking cough followed, and when the fit subsided, his eyes again shone yellow.

 _“Once in blood the oath is sealed,”_ he intoned in a chilling voice _“If soaked it stays, can’t be repealed!”_

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Stanley demanded.

“Well I _thought_ Fordsy might be able to explain it to you himself, but he was getting a little hysterical. In both senses of the word, of course, but it wasn’t getting the point across. So I’ll lay it plain -- your brother sold his soul.”

“ _What?”_

“Tsk tsk tsk you keep using that word. Have some patience. Or just listen to what I’m saying. Basically when we made our deal, it was a blood oath. Bound him to me with the _explicit_ intent of keeping something like this from happening. I’ve been keeping it fresh so no one tries exactly what you were about to -- ‘cause sure, it’ll work. But it’ll also be your brother’s death sentence.”

“I don’t believe you,” Stanley snapped. “You’ve been trying to pull one over on us since day one. How do I know this isn’t your latest ploy to keep us from crushing you once and for all?”

Bill snapped the fingers of Ford’s body and, once again, like a horrible, macabrely comedic revolving door of identities, the yellow faded from his eyes as he hit the floor. Stan almost wouldn’t have trusted, after the number of swaps that had taken place in the last few minutes, it was truly his brother he was speaking to again if he hadn’t caught the tears welling up in his admittedly distinctly brown eyes.

“I-I’m sorry Stanley,” he stuttered out. “I never meant for--”

“--Is what that _thing_ is saying true?” Stan demanded, praying for a resounding “no” to come from Ford’s lips. “Will getting rid of him….” he trailed off.

“It will,” Ford choked out apologetically. “I didn’t want to lay the truth out like that, not when you were trying so hard -- after all you said and did for me I _wanted_ to believe we could find a way but…”

Stan’s heart felt like it was in his stomach, and all he could think to do was wrap his trembling twin in a comforting embrace. Ford was shaking like a leaf, and Stan knew it wasn’t all from exhaustion -- as his brother pressed his face into his shoulder, the damp pricklings of tears made themselves known.

“Shhh, shhh…” he tried to comfort. "C’mon Stanford. We… we still have time, right? If we keep an eye on you, keep him from doing whatever rituals are keeping you bound…”

“We don’t have time,” Fiddleford said in a low voice from behind them, causing both twins to look up at him. “Stanford.... it’s complete isn’t it?”

Ford nodded shakily, and Stanley was lost.

“Would someone give a straight answer for once in this entire conversation?” he said.

Both scientists pointed to the massive metal structure in the center of the laboratory.

“Ever since we made our bargain,” Ford said slowly, “Bill has been responsible for the construction of this. I didn’t know the details myself for the longest time, and now that I do, he’s prevented me from seeing its progress. But the device is meant to rend space itself and allow him a gateway into our world beyond just my body -- an eternal physical form. The damage he could do....”

“And y’say it’s completed?” Fiddleford asked.

Ford nodded glumly. “I think if it weren’t for my injury Bill would have completed the construction days ago. As it is… well, I’m almost surprised he took the time to talk to you. Listen…” and here his voice went very quiet, “I can’t thank either of you enough for what you have attempted to do for me, but I gave you the instructions to the cave for a reason. You have to perform the exorcism.”

“No!” Stanley shouted immediately. “Ford I thought we got this damn martyr complex out of your head. Whatever happens we’ll face it together, with you _alive._ ”

“You think I deserve that?” Ford said with a flash of anger. “This damage is mine alone and it can be stopped before it spreads. If it’s at the cost of… well… I’ll have reaped when I’ve sown.”

“Ford, you’re worth more than your--”

“You think I’m worth other people’s lives? You think I’m worth…? You think…” Ford was starting to hyperventilate, and Stan and Fiddleford exchanged nervous glances. “I’m not worth more than anyone else; as far as I’m concerned, I am worth _noth--”_

“--Stop right there. Stop right there, right now,” Stanley said. “Stanford. Take it from someone who’s talked about himself that way too, that’s not a path I’m letting you take. Do you know how much the two of us worried over you those three days you were unresponsive? How much we’ve tried to help? If your own goddamn brain won’t let you think it, take a look at the way us two have been pulling for you. We don’t think that. Don’t let us be wrong.”

Stanford’s eyes were once again welling with tears.

“He’s right y’know,” Fiddleford added softly. “When I heard the state you were in, I was ready t’haul myself over here to help without even knowin’ if there was forgiveness between us. Y’mean somethin’ Ford. I don’t know if we can put the words to it that’ll help y’to see that but… y’mean somethin’ awful important.”

“Important enough to risk the world?” Ford said bitterly. His face was a veritable kaleidescope of emotions, touched and hurt and scared and guilty all at once, and it broke Stan’s heart to see him struggle with the thought that he really did represent something important to the two of them just as he was faced with the choice of how selfish that might prove to be.

“I’ll take however many minutes we got to try to find a better solution,” Stan said firmly, resting a hand on Ford’s shoulder. “And I’d like to think that big brain of yours might try to rack up a solution too, if we’ve convinced you that stickin’ around is worth something.”

“Stanley there just… there’s not a way to break a blood seal,” Ford said miserably. “Not without…” he trailed off, falling horrifically quiet.

Stan didn’t want to know what morbid thoughts were rolling in his brother’s brain, too sick with the whole scenario and the thought that in a few moments, he might have to make the most agonizing choice of his life. Fiddleford gave him a concerned glance, the two of them thinking the same thing in unison -- _if only we COULD do anything for him…._

The oppressive quiet lasted a few moments longer, brains racing and the two men hoping that Ford wasn’t falling into an even more destructive melancholy, until the party in question did the last thing either of them expected him to do.

Ford started laughing hysterically.

 _Oh God,_ Stan found himself thinking, _we finally broke him. I gave him hope and it got ripped away and… and it’s all my fault but it broke him._

He wanted it to stop, wanted to rush forward and cradle his brother tightly, sheltering any fragment of sanity he had left and clinging to it no matter what the situation was, but Ford had started crawling in the direction of the metal structure, still laughing like a maniac. He was once again babbling, but now it was what sounded like nonsense, under his breath.

“Blood seal….” he said, “blood seal! It was a blood… a blood seal. Bill... your tether…” he collapsed, completely overcome by the exertion.

“Ford…” Stanley probed gently, hearing his voice crack with the words as Fiddleford rested a hand on his shoulder comfortingly. Well, rested was generous. That had been the original intent, but the minute Ford’s hysterical peals had started they both tensed significantly.

“Recite the incantation, Stanley,” Ford, said, curling up on the floor to turn back to him quickly. “Quick, do it!”

“I…” he stammered softly, nearly choking on the words, “There’s gotta be something else, come on Ford, there’s gotta be something left that isn’t… that isn’t pleading for death.”

His brother’s eyes softened, losing a touch of their momentary madness, something akin to realization crossing his face.

“That… I’m not, Stanley. I know I’ve… said some things, since you got here. I know you might have reason to believe otherwise, but I promise you, finally --   _finally_ \-- this is the opposite of that. You were right, the whole time you were right. But please… _please_ … trust me.”

The thought crossed Stanley’s mind that even if Ford hadn’t completely snapped, he could still be stubbornly going through with his intent to self-sacrifice. There was something in his eyes now, though, the parts of them that were slowly slipping back towards sanity that looked hopeful, rather than hopeless.

But it was quickly glazed over by yellow.

“Don’t listen to that!” Bill snarled from Ford’s mouth. “He’s just trying to trick you -- you know what he’s talked about since before you even came here. You banish me, and you kill him. I know you, Stanley, you’re too soft to save anyone or anything at the cost of your brother.”

Stan hesitated at the return of the demon, a flash of suspicion crossing his brain. Perhaps…. _perhaps…._

If it was going to come down to trusting one of the two, he’d still chose his brother any day.

“You got that right,” Stan said, glaring back at Bill. “Compared to him, I’m soft and stupid. But you don’t know me like Ford does -- I also take dumb chances. Fiddleford, read it!”

He shouted the last sentence and threw the journal to his companion as the demon in his brother’s body lunged at him, hands aimed at his neck. Bill screeched in frustration when he realized his mistake and immediately moved to go after the Fiddleford, but Stanley held him fast as he struggled, pinning Ford’s body to the floor.

“You better be careful,” he spat as Fiddleford started chanting. “Fordsy’s not back up to maximum capacity yet. Slamming him against the floor could have consequences.”

“We fixed him up once, I’ll take those odds,” Stan said, gritting his teeth. Clearly, Bill was now somehow augmenting Ford’s strength -- he was having trouble keeping him down.

“Oh really?” Bill taunted, “Maybe today _is_ going to end with the death of a Pines. Remember that whole thing I said about you being ‘useful’?”

Stan gasped as he was kneed in the stomach, grip weakening slightly as the air was pushed from his lungs.

“Your usefulness just _expired_ ,” Bill said, wrenching them both off the floor. Stan grappled to regain control as they swung at each other. But despite the still-evident frailty of Ford’s body, Bill had gained the upper hand. He shoved Stan to the ground, hard, and stomped on the middle of his torso. There was a sickening _crack_ and a flash of pain, but before Stanley could register his likely-broken ribs Bill was leaning in to choke him.

“Any last words, _Stanley_?”

“Yeah,” he barely managed to gasp out through his constricting windpipe. “You’re easily distracted.”

“ _What?_ ” Bill shrieked, and at first Stan thought he was just annoyed by his cryptic statement, but he noticed two things almost at once.

First, Bill’s grip around his throat was loosening.

And second, Fiddleford had stopped reading.

“No no no _no_ …” Bill was saying, descending into the same kind of babbling that had had Stan so concerned earlier. He was bringing Ford’s hands up completely now, racing them through his hair in panic as his eyes grew wider and wider. Before it could truly sink in, he collapsed to the floor, shaking. Ford’s body convulsed violently, back arching against the floor as an inhuman shriek filled the air.

And then, he fell still.

“Stanley!” Fiddleford said with a cry, running over and tossing the journal to the side as he raced towards him. “Are y’alright?”

“Deal with me later,” he gasped, thinking much the same thought towards himself. His injuries weren’t pleasant but, well…

“We still gotta see if I called that bastard’s bluff.”

Nervously, both of them turned to look at Ford’s crumpled form. Though Stan had been confident just moments before that his brother’s promise he would survive the exorcism was the truth, seeing him lying there still as a stone shook him right back up again.

“Stanford?” Fiddleford asked nervously, crouching down to gently shake Ford’s shoulder.

There was no response.

Ford lay curled almost in the fetal position, deathly pale as ever, and eyes screwed shut in what looked to be an expression of pain.

But what he didn’t seem to be doing was breathing.

“No no no no _no,_ ” Stan said frantically. It was already bordering on tearfully. “He can’t have… he wouldn’t have _lied…_ he… he…. I trusted him, he can’t have…”

“He might not have known,” Fiddleford said sadly, wrapping an arm around Stanley as his own voice cracked. “I think Stanford was tellin’ you what he thought was the truth but… well… he wasn’t exactly at his healthiest state. It might have proved to much. His wound…”

The figure curled on the floor gasped.

“Stanford!” they yelled in unison.

Ford gulped for air greedily, like there was none in his own lungs, and gave a series of hacking coughs that were almost as terrifying as his earlier silence. Trembling, he tried to sit up. But the effort was too much and he collapsed back to the floor.

Fiddleford and Stanley both tucked arms under his sides, helping him into a sitting position. Ford was still gasping for air, but gave them an incredibly weak look of gratitude.

“Are y’hurt?” Fiddleford was the first to interject.

“E- _everything_ hurts,” Ford said shakily. His voice was impossibly weak and the words were almost a whisper, but Stan almost felt like crying at the mere fact that his brother was speaking at all.

“We’ll do what we can about that,” Fiddleford said soothingly. Ford gave him another unsteady but grateful smile.

“This all some effect of however you broke the seal?” Stan asked. He couldn’t help but already start to thank the fact that his brother’s brain was two steps ahead -- Ford must have worked out that solution in the very nick of time.

But Stanford just gave him a look that, were he not so shaken and tired-looking, could only be classified as a smirk.

“I didn’t break the seal, Stanley,” he said. “ _You_ did.”

“I… I what?”

“When I finally emerged from that three-day recovery period, you two told me that to treat the gunshot you’d had to perform a transfusion,” Ford said. “That Stanley had graciously donated what was needed to save my life. What failed to occur to me at the time, however, was that it would do it two times over. _That_ was the reason Bill’s control over me was so drastically weakened. And that was why I could survive the rending of him from me in the exorcism -- the tether was weak because my own end of the bargain had become _diluted_.”

Fiddleford and Stanley both looked at him with dawning realization growing on their faces

“Of course…” Ford said, his voice still very strained, “...that’s not to say I’m not suffering some… ill-effects. And in conjunction with the existing wound…” as if on cue, he slumped forward in both their grips. Double hands moved to right him gently.  “But with a bit of assistance I think it should be survivable,” Ford concluded.

Somewhat accidentally shoving Fiddleford to the side, Stanley wrapped his brother up in a tearful embrace, growing only more emotional when it was returned -- and then winced immediately as the same action pained his throbbing rib.

“Oh God, that was--”

“--ill-advised,” Ford finished, gasping slightly and looking down at where, thanks to Bill’s reckless fighting activity, the bandages on his abdomen had started to bleed through.

“Looks like we’ve got some patchin’ up to do,” Fiddleford said, sounding amused in spite of himself.

“Long as it’s a team effort that’s fine by me,” Stan said, grinning.

He felt his heart leap when Ford smiled back.

 

* * *

 

**[Letter sent by Stanley Pines on January 19th, 1892]**

 

_Dear Ma,_

_Sorry I didn’t write immediately on arriving in Oregon -- I don’t want to worry you any more than necessary. I’m fine._

_I found Stanford, and I can explain everything. He’s been_ **_very_ ** _sick, and it was a good thing you sent me up here when you did because he needed my help (whether or not he ever admits it…)_

_He hasn’t fully recovered -- I think he’s going to be in a bad way for a while -- but the immediate danger is past so don’t go worrying your head off. I’m planning on staying with him. I think he needs it._

_….Well, that and he actually received the idea pretty well. I think we mighta fixed more than just his illness._

_Love,_

_-Stanley_

 

* * *

 

**[The final document enclosed is a weathered, black-and-white  photograph. Labelled “Klondike, 1896”, it shows a rocky outcropping patched with snow.**

**In the middle of it stand three men in heavy winter clothing -- on the left, a lanky man with lighter hair and small spectacles dons a pair of earmuffs; in the middle the bulkiest of the three clad in heavy flannel and a battered-looking jacket has his arms thrown around the other two, pulling them into an embrace; and on the far right, another man with a face similar to the second and a long scarf wrapped twice around his neck clutches a notebook and pencil in hand, looking slightly startled as he’s pulled into the enthusiastic squeeze.**

**They all are smiling]**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (funnily enough, ultimately implying the three of them stayed together and were off to the location of the next great american gold rush, in line with Stanley's treasure hunting dreams, was the plan from the start -- imagine my amusement in watching the finale when the Arctic turned out to be a fitting destination...)
> 
> i want to give a huge thank you to everyone who's enjoyed, commented, and read this fic -- it's been a pleasure to write, and your responses are at least half the reason why


End file.
